Harry Potter and the Tree of Time
by ChaoticL
Summary: As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating: **M (for later chapters)

**Summary: **As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings: **All pairings are true to cannon

******Rules for Commenting: **Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 1: Celebrity Specters**

It was a breezy autumn day in London and Melissa Skeeter was nauseous at the thought of her first real reporting assignment. Melissa had applied to be an investigative reporter for the Daily Prophet the day she graduated from wizarding school. Her infamous mother, Rita Skeeter, had arranged an interview for her with Beaty Mackentire, the Prophet's newest head editor. Beaty was excited to meet the next Rita Skeeter, but his high expectations went unrealized. He was a lighthearted and jolly man with an excessive beer belly who was never known for having a temper, but Melissa's interview enough to give him one. Prior work experience was not expected from someone right out of school, but a passable resume containing at least basic academic achievements was. She had no such resume, instead presenting a rushed letter of intent without a providing a concrete reason that she ought to be hired. He decided to look past that mishap. Perhaps she did not know that a resume would be required, so instead he looked to the quality of her writing.

Her portfolio was shoddy; it contained a mess of unprofessional clutter of articles that she had written for the school newspaper. It was obvious to him that she had been attempting to emulate her mother's writing style, but without success. While she had chosen topics of importance, she had failed to draw out the minute details that her mother was so adept at finding. Altogether, her work was not bad, but he would not have chosen to publish any of it had it come to his desk. She had thrown some bits of poetry toward the end of her portfolio, but Beaty decided not to read them. He was running a newspaper after all, not a literary magazine, or worse, The Quibbler.

At the end of the interview when Melissa was asked if she had any questions about the job, she requested to be directed to the bathroom. Despite the failed interview, Melissa was gifted with a job at the prophet, but not as an investigative reporter. Rather, she was assigned as an assistant to the environment desk. The Prophet would have preferred not to hire such an unseasoned writer, but with a wink and a nudge from Rita Skeeter, Beaty had no choice but to bring Melissa on staff.

In her first few months working for the Prophet, Melissa wrote a couple of small environment columns; however, none of them were published. Many of her columns were about owl behavior, but those were deemed too technical for publication. Then she wrote an article titled: _Mating Habits of the Venomous Venereal Pixies_. It was the laughing stock of the Prophet staff for weeks, but the clamor subsided just as suddenly as it had come and the article was forgotten in the bottom of a waste basket in the office storage room. No one paid much mind to Melissa Skeeter after that.

It was Melissa's mother who came to her rescue, dragging her away from her work station into the head editor's office and convincing him to give Melissa an interview opportunity. She argued that Melissa's prestigious foreign education at the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France would make her the obvious choice to interview the French Minister for Magic when he came to London. Like everything else Rita Skeeter said, one quarter of her story was true and the other three quarters were absolute rubbish. The Beauxbatons Academy was indeed prestigious, but Melissa's education was not. She was a mediocre student, not receiving either the best grades or the worst, and she struggled in her more difficult classes. Instead of studying, she preferred to pass the time scribbling amateur poetry and diary entries in a small journal that she kept. Her teachers had such disdain for her lack of focus that many of them often refused often to assist her when she did decide to make an effort to study. The only classes where Melissa had shown any real effort were in her charms and transfiguration classes, but only because those subjects were of unique interest to her. The head editor was privy to none of this information and had no reason to deny Rita Skeeter. After all, it was an interview with the French Prime minister, and Beaty was not expecting any reporter to succeed in wangling a story out of him, and therefore he would have nothing to lose when Melissa failed.

Melissa sat waiting in the Ministry's reception hall skimming through a stack of notecards that her mother had prepared for her. Each notecard had a question that Melissa was supposed to memorize for her interview, but the questions were lengthy, and trying to remember them all was giving her a headache.

"Ms. Skeeter, the Auror office is ready for your screening," one of the receptionists said. Melissa jumped to her feet and jogged to the reception desk. The receptionist used her wand to gather three sheets of paper and fold them twice over. Melissa grabbed the papers and turned towards the Auror office.

"Ms. Skeeter, you forgot your bag," the receptionist said, pointing to an alligator skin bag that was lying on the floor in the waiting area. The bag had been a birthday gift from her mother. Melissa sighed, wondering how she could have forgotten it.

"Thanks," Melissa said.

"You're Rita Skeeter's daughter, aren't you?" the receptionist asked. Melissa nodded and smiled. "Same last names aside, the two of you look strikingly similar. You're much younger though, of course. I assume that since you're applying for a media permit that you will be following in your mother's footsteps?"

"Yes, I'm working with the Daily Prophet now," Melissa said. "It's been my dream to work there with my mother ever since I was a little girl."

"That's wonderful. Your mother must be a great role model for you. She writes such wonderful articles."

"Yeah, she's very talented," Melissa said, "I hope that I can be as good as she is one day."

"I'm sure that you will, sweetie," the receptionist said. "You'd better hurry along though, or you'll be late." Something in her phrasing had seemed demeaning and even patronizing. Melissa was used to those kinds of conversations, and all of them went the same way. People always brought up how great they thought her mother was, but they had never bothered to ask what Melissa had written. They did not seem to care. Everyone seemed to expect Rita's greatness in Melissa, but the only people that had ever indicated that they wanted it were her colleagues working at the Prophet.

The Auror office was not at all what Melissa expected. The main room was filled with a series of small cubicles surrounded by cool taupe walls that seemed to soothe the mood. Some of the cubicles contained newspaper clippings and maps, but there was no massive command center, no fancy displays or tracking devices that she would expect from the Ministry's mysterious dark wizard hunters. Even the Aurors themselves were boring, milling about their lives as if they were processing tax returns. She had heard of the eccentricities of Aurors like Mad-Eye Moody, but the men who filled this room appeared normal and perhaps even average. They were wizards and witches like everyone else and if not for the wanted posters adorning the walls, she thought that this could have been any other ministry department.

"Mrs. Skeeter, is that you?" a voice said when she entered. She turned to look for the voice and saw no one. "Down here Mrs. Skeeter." Melissa looked down next to her to find a small dwarf-like man. He was no taller than a chair and looked more like a garden gnome in his red cap and cape than a wizard.

"Hi," Melissa said, uncertain of whether to look down at him while she talked, or to avoid eye contact. "It's Ms. Skeeter by the way. I'm not married."

"Yes, of course. It's just that you and your mother are both so tall," the dwarf wizard said. "This way please." He led her into a cramped closet off of the main room. The room was bare other than an old, rotting wooden desk and two chairs, one on each side of the desk. The lighting was dim; provided by a single candelabra hanging from the back wall.

"Take a seat Ms. Skeeter," the dwarf said. He pulled out one of the chairs for her and it screeched along the floor like a banshee. Melissa could have sworn that she saw a family of termites run out of one of the legs of the chair and scurry under the desk, but she could not be sure in that lighting. She sat opposite the dwarf and put the papers the receptionist had given her on top of the desk.

"Shall I fill these out now?" Melissa asked. "And what is that smell?"

"No, those forms are for me, dear. Before you are permitted to meet a foreign dignitary you need to be screened, which is why you ended up here before they'd let you into the press room. And don't worry about the smell. This is just an older room. We've been meaning to replace the furniture for a long time." Melissa slid the forms over to the dwarf. He took out a quill and began to write. For some reason, the scratching of the quill on the paper irritated her. She could not figure out why, but the quill seemed even more annoying than the screech of the chair.

"Do you think that you might be able to write more quietly? The scratching of your quill on the paper is giving me a slight headache."

"If you say so, Ms. Skeeter." The Dwarf continued to fill out the paperwork but the sound of the quill hurt even more with each stroke, and the ink on the page seemed to her like blood streaming out of her ears.

"Um, sir. You're writing harder than before. Could you please keep it down?"

"I assure you, Ms. Skeeter, my writing hasn't changed since we started here." The walls began to pound against Melissa's ears. She could hear the footsteps of the Aurors outside, crashing into the floor, creating earpopping earthquakes with each step. Her nostrils were inflamed with the repugnant smell. Her eyes darted around the room looking for something. She didn't know what, but anything. The room was bare.

"I need to get out of here. I'm feeling dizzy," Melissa said. "Excuse me."

"One more second Ms. Skeeter." It was too much. Melissa could not take any more. She stood and staggered to the door. It was locked. She pounded her fist on the door in desperation, but each punch on the door felt like a blow to her face own face. She crumpled to the floor and began to slip out of consciousness. And then it stopped, as if someone had flipped a switch, calming the air around her.

"Finished, Ms. Skeeter," the dwarf said. He was sitting at the desk re-folding the paperwork as if nothing had happened.

"What just happened?" Melissa asked. "You know, don't you?"

"Screening, of course, Ms. Skeeter. You passed." He handed her the paperwork. "Take these to the secretary in the press room. I believe your interview is starting soon."

Melissa unfolded the paperwork to see what the Dwarf had written and saw her entire life transcribed in front of her eyes. It was all there: how she dreamed of being a reporter even as a child, her time at the academy, known associates, boyfriends, crimes, failings. "How did you know all of this?"

"Screening, Ms. Skeeter," the dwarf said. He stood to leave. "You may think our office drab and boring, but I assure you, Ms. Skeeter, that there is more to this place than meets the eye. How else would we keep you safe? Run along now or you'll be late." The dwarf left the room, leaving the door ajar.

Melissa felt violated, as if the dwarf had forced her onto a table, strapped her down, and then extracted her memories against her will. She felt anger and a passion steaming inside her like she had never experienced before. "You can't just do that to people!" The dwarf continued to walk, unfazed by her outburst. "That's an invasion of privacy. Where was the officer in charge of just treatment of persons during an interrogation? When did I give informed consent? How can you do this?"

"We can do it, I assure you," the dwarf said from down the hall. "We're the Aurors."

"Smug, arrogant little dwarf," Melissa said under her breath. The whole procedure was invasive and appalling. How did the Aurors get away with torture like that? And what about possible self-incrimination? That was illegal under wizarding law. Did the other Ministry departments condone that screening technique? If so, national security could not justify torture. She reasoned that it must be a secret program and the Ministry saw the ends but not the means. It disgusted her and she made a note in her head to write an editorial exposing the experience.

Melissa looked through the paperwork more thoroughly. After she was finished, she smiled and fixed her hair, laughing to herself as she left the room. They had not discovered everything. She slid the papers into her bag and walked to the press room.

"What in the world is this?" Ron Weasly asked. He held a pair of women's lederhosen up to the light to examine it more closely.

"Anonymous tip I suppose, Ron," Neville Longbottom responded. He continued sorting through the stack of paper sitting on the desk in front of him. Harry, Ron and Neville had been assigned to sort through all of the anonymous tips that had come through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Office in the past six months. "That's supposedly what all of this is, but half of it I can't imagine how it got here."

"I never thought I would see something like this in the tip collection. What do you think, Harry?" Ron asked. Harry shrugged and continued sifting through evidence. The three of them had been offered positions at the Auror office after Voldemort's defeat at Harry's hands. Harry had imagined working with the Aurors would be exciting and brimming with intrigue, but since he and friends began working there, they had been doing all manner of menial tasks from sorting through anonymous tips to bringing coffee to the Head Auror, Hanson Isgar.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been advanced to the position of acting Minister of Magic, because he was be the ideal person to lead a peaceful transition back into normal life. That meant that there were no potential candidates to lead the Auror office, as all of the senior Aurors at the time of Voldemort's demise were now either dead, retired or did not want the job. Therefore, the Ministry advanced Isgar to Head Auror. He was an experienced bureaucrat from within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who knew how do delegate tasks, but he had little experience when it came to the affairs of Aurors.

"Oh well, I think its rubbish," Ron said. He put down the lederhosen and turned back towards the stack of tips.

"Hey!" a high pitched voice squawked. Neville stopped working and laughed as Ron eyed the room looking for the source of the voice. "Down here you nitwit!" The voice was coming from the lederhosen. Ron squealed and jumped up from the table, fumbling for his wand.

"_Stupefy_!" Ron aimed at the lederhosen, which fell limp on the table again.

"Do you think that was a little excessive, Ron?" Neville said.

"It startled me! It's not every day that you meet a pair of talking lederhosen after all," Ron said. He grabbed the lederhosen and rolled it into a ball. "What category do you reckon this goes in?"

"Weird, that's for sure." Neville laughed, but Ron was not amused. "Well, I guess you could stick it in miscellaneous. Someone else will have it from there."

"Good idea," Ron said. He stuffed the lederhosen into a large sack that denoted the tips that did not fit into any other category. There were seven categories of evidence that tips were sorted into: dark wizards, violent crime, theft, sexual offense, miscellaneous, rubbish, and mudblood sightings. Mudblood sightings were in a category to their own because of the system that the death eaters had implemented for sorting tips when they controlled the Ministry. Sorting tips occurred magically and automatically when a new tip was submitted, but while Yaxley controlled the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he altered the sorting spell to only sort tips into two categories: mudblood sightings and other. At the time, such a sorting system reflected the priorities of the Ministry, but now the system was quite obsolete. The Ministry had still not gotten around to correcting Yaxley's curse, so sorting of his "other" category had to be done by hand.

"Harry, you haven't been very talkative lately. Is everything okay?" Neville asked. Neville worried too much and it had always gotten him into trouble, even though he had gotten more adept at wriggling out of it over the years.

"It's nothing. I've just been busy working, and I don't like to talk while I'm working," Harry said.

"Work goes by faster when you make it fun though, right?" Ron said. He nudged Harry with his elbow, a gesture to which Harry gave no response. "Come on, cheer up, we'll be done soon."

"Everything's alright with Ginny, isn't it?" Neville asked.

"Yes, Neville, everything is fine," Harry said, not looking up from his work.

"Then what is it? What's wrong, mate?" Ron asked. "We're your friends; we want to help if we can. That's how we've always done it, and it's always worked before?"

"You mean when you ran out on Hermione and me while we were searching for Horcruxes?" A slow fade of dissonance descended upon the room and Harry realized that he had gone too far. "Ron, I'm sorry, you know that I didn't mean that."

"That was a low blow, mate," Ron said. His eyes were burned and Harry knew that he had reopened an old wound.

"Ron, I'm sorry," Harry said. "I wasn't thinking. It's just this stuff Isgar has us doing. If I thought you could help me, I'd ask. But you can't. You're both stuck doing the same pointless thing that I am,"

"I know how you feel Harry," Neville said, "I'm considering resigning."

"Resigning?" Ron asked. "Why would you do that?"

"I didn't join the Ministry because I wanted to be an Auror," Neville said, "My parents were aurors and I suppose that had something to do with it too, but I joined the Aurors because they asked me to. I guess I killed the snake and stood up to Voldemort and the Aurors saw something in that. But I was just doing what needed to be done to protect my friends. I don't want to do that stuff for a living, especially if they treat us like they do now."

"If you weren't an Auror, what would you do?" Harry asked.

Neville shrugged and thought for a second. "I'd probably go into herbology and open up a business. Maybe I could even try and teach at Hogwarts. I'm not sure yet."

"I don't expect it will stay like this forever though," Ron said. "Once we learn the ropes and all, they'll put us to good use."

"But that's not what I want, Ron," Neville said. "I'll stay on here for a bit longer though until I figure out what to do." Harry stood up and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked.

"You're right, Ron. They can't treat us like this forever. I'm going to figure out when they're going to give us real jobs to do." Harry stormed out of the room and into the maze of cubicles in the main office. Ron followed Harry out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"This is madness. You're going to get yourself fired, Harry," Ron said.

"I've got to try," Harry said, "or they'll just keep us in there forever sorting anonymous tips."

One of the Aurors shushed them from his cubical and Harry used that break to escape through the maze. He was afraid that Ron might be able to talk him out of his determination, but he also did not want Ron there when he talked to Isgar just in case Ron was right. He knew he could not let his best friend get fired because of him.

Harry knocked three times on the door to Isgar's office, and a reply came quickly, inviting Harry to enter. He found Isgar sitting at his long, oak wood desk smoking a pipe. Isgar was an eccentric and self-centered man in his late forties, balding with the steady pace of his age. He was not an imposing figure by any stretch of the imagination, but it was his demeanor and poise alone that kept his underlings in check.

"It's you, Potter. What do you want?" Isgar said. He snipped his pipe between his teeth and leered into Harry's eyes. The glare was like a fog light in the smoke filled room. It blinded Harry and caused the courage and determination that he had moments ago to retreat into the tips of his shoes and spill out onto the floor. "Well?"

"It's nothing, sir," Harry said. He cursed himself for correcting course. "I just wanted to keep you informed of our progress. We're about halfway done."

"Is that all?" Isgar said. He removed the pipe from his mouth and blew the smoke out into Harry's face. Harry nodded and turned to leave. "You wanted to know why you and your friends are sitting in a cramped closet sorting those anonymous tips like a secretary. I'm right, aren't I?"

Harry's legs turned to stone from Isgar's Gorgon stare and he stammered before responding. "Yes, sir, that is why I came."

"You haven't guessed it yet then, have you? It's real simple, Harry. I just don't like you. I despise what you stand for even more. Your celebrity privilege earned you this post, not your skills in the magical arts. Where are your N.E.W.T. scores? Where is your Hogwarts graduation certificate? What do you have to prove your worth to me and this office? If you ask me, the Minister was too hasty in granting you assignment here. I don't know whether you just got lucky with the Dark Lord or if you actually know what you're doing. I started behind a desk sorting papers just like you, and so did every other Auror out there in that room. You'll receive no special treatment and you will do what the rest of us did until you work your way up the ranks. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir, but I can do more—"

"No buts, Mr. Potter, only hard work." Harry stared into the floor, hoping to avoid complete and total petrification. "Now that we've settled that issue, I have another assignment for you, young Potter."

"Sir?"

"I want you to come into the office early tomorrow morning. The Department of Mysteries has need of test subjects for time turners, and I volunteered you as you seem to be in need of more work to prove yourself."

"Time turners?" Harry asked. "I thought all of them were destroyed when the death eaters attacked the Ministry."

"They were, but the guys down in the Department of Mysteries have been trying to replicate the design ever since. They have a working prototype and were asking around in different departments for volunteers. Apparently no one else has applied, so I signed you up. You can thank me later."

"Do you think that's really a good use of my time?"

"What do I care about your time? Regardless, it's a time turner, Harry. If you waste too much time, just turn back the clock and make up for what you missed. I hope it isn't too buggy though, as I would hate to lose my star celebrity. Now run along, Mr. Potter. I have work to do." Isgar waved his hand, shooing Harry away. He left, beaten and broken like a child that had just been disciplined with a thick leather belt. Ron was waiting outside.

"Well, how did it go?" Ron asked.

"I don't want to talk about it," Harry said. He walked back through the cubicles to the office where Neville was still sorting meaningless tips. Harry joined him and remained silent for the rest of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating: **M (for later chapters)

**Summary: **As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings: **All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting: **Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 2: A Proper Lady**

"Minister Girard, what are your views on the socialisms of witches and wizards?" Melissa asked. "No, that's not right at all. Minister Girard, you support the socialism of Witches and Wizards in your country, right?"

If that had been the real interview, Melissa knew that she would have made a fool of herself long ago. She grabbed the index card from the rim of the bathroom sink and re-read it for the tenth time, out loud to herself. Her mother's questions for the French Minister were mazes of leading questions and words with dual meanings trying to force him into admitting something foolish, but while they were clever, they were also deceitful. Melissa knew that this line of questioning would have come naturally for her mother, but she struggled even to form the exact questions in her mind. She would have preferred to interview someone who had done something wrong, rather than create an extravagant story where there was none. But that was not the kind of reporting that the Prophet wanted from her. She looked back into the mirror and swept her golden curls away from her eyes.

"Minister Girard, do you support the Socialist movements of witches and wizards across your country?" She cursed under her breath and stomped her heel into the tile floor. This was not going to work and she knew it. Another failure seemed to be on the horizon and she could not find any way to prevent it. Maybe if she faked sick or force vomited she could get out of it. Her stomach was already doing flips and turns on its own, so inducing vomiting would not have been difficult.

"Ms. Skeeter," a voice said from the other side of the bathroom door, "the Minister is ready for you now."

"Give me a second, Helen," Melissa said. Helen was a press room assistant assigned to her for the day. She was a young woman who was fresh out of Hogwarts and she was hoping to work her way up through the ranks of the Ministry and become a dignitary herself one day.

"Is everything okay in there?" Helen asked.

"Yes, everything's fine. I'll be out in a minute." Melissa pulled a quill from her bag and examined it, wondering whether to stick the feather or the tip down her throat. She could not remember a time that she had ever been this nervous before. Her schoolwork had never engaged her, and thus had never mattered to her, so exams were always stress-free. She thought back to the time when she was first kissed a boy in a back alley in Cannes, but then she was more excited and flattered than nervous. Then she remembered her interview for the Daily Prophet. Her hands were shaking when Beaty had first greeted her and said that she was a perfect portrait of her mother. She had gotten the job, and if she could make it through that, she reasoned that this interview could not be much worse.

"Ms. Skeeter?" Helen said from the door. Melissa returned the quill to her bag and left the bathroom. "There you are. I was getting worried. Follow me, and when you meet Minister Gerard, remember to be act like a proper Englishwoman. The French are a conceited lot when it comes to formality and the Ministry prefers to put its best foot forward." 

Melissa gulped down a minor helping of half-digested potatoes. No one had said anything about propriety. Beauxbatons had required first year students to take a class on formal etiquette, which Melissa had failed. She thought it was silly that people had to have the forks and knives on one side of the plate, and that bread went opposite the beverage. It was all very amusing in her mind, but also conceited and archaic. Her teachers did not take kindly to her attitude and forced her to take the class every single year until she graduated, and by then they had given up all hopes of making her into a proper lady. Melissa comforted herself with the fact that she would neither be sharing a meal with the Minister, nor forced to dance with him. 

Helen led Melissa into the press room through a set of large twin double doors. The room was the splitting image of decadent Victorian England. All of the seating was upholstered with rose red suede lined with gold and the tables were made of carefully molded and polished wood. The space was well lit by a garden of diamond chandeliers suspended in air just below the ceiling and fine art was displayed along the walls from all manner of prominent wizarding artists. But the pièce de résistance was a towering limestone sculpture of the wizard Merlin.

"Could they have decorated the place any gaudier?" Melissa asked in a whisper.

"I think it's elegant," Helen said, but then seemed to reconsider her answer. "It might be a bit over the top, but like I said, the Ministry wants to always put its best foot forward for foreign dignitaries."

"A foot is a foot no matter what shoe you dress it up with," Melissa said. Helen chose not to argue, and instead nodded across the room to three wizards standing and talking while sipping champagne.

"Those are the French dignitaries," Helen said. "The one in the middle is Girard."

The French Minister of Magic was an imposing man even in his old age. The grays that were streaked through his hair would normally portray a weakness in figure. Instead, the noble, groomed lines lent a regal quality to his already alpine figure. He adorned lengthy white and silver robes that seemed to absorb all of the light in the room, only to reflect it back onto anyone and everyone that stood in his presence.

"Minister Girard," Helen said, "May I present Melissa Skeeter." Girard turned to greet them, but his mustache curled with scorn when he saw that Melissa, a young girl of eighteen, would be taking his interview. Helen gently tapped her foot against Melissa's to remind her to bow. Melissa did, but only out of respect for custom, and not the man.

"What is this nonsense?" Girard asked in an almost flawless English accent. "Are you the Daily Prophet reporter?"

"That's me, yes," Melissa said as she took a seat on one of the sofas. Girard sat across from her.

"Well, let's get this over with, shall we." Girard said. He smirked and relaxed into his chair. "I have a lunch date with someone much more important."

"I can try, Minister. Would you mind if I used a quick quotes quill?" Melissa asked and Gerard shrugged in disinterest. Very few of the people outside of the field of journalism understood the real magic behind quick quotes quills. Rita Skeeter had popularized them when they were first invented, but she also gave them a bad reputation that was not fully deserved. Many people understand quick quotes quills to create sensational and inaccurate tales that bear little resemblance to actual events, but that is not the case at all. A quick quotes quill reflects the personality of the witch or wizard that uses it. It was mere coincidence that Rita Skeeter and most other journalists tended to sensationalize whenever they could. Melissa's quick quotes quill tended to be much more cautious and stuck to matter of fact and would only compose dramatic and excessive tales on rare occasions.

"I do not care," Gerard said. Melissa took her quill out of her bag. "I am never afraid of any trickery of the press. There is no way to distort a story that does not exist."

Melissa sucked on the tip of the quill and erected it on a piece of parchment beside her. "I could not agree with you more, Minister. I guess we should get started. Minister Gerard, what are your views of the socialist ambitions of many wizards and witches within your country?"

"You're three months late on the take, Melissa," Gerard said. He said her name with an element of contempt that Melissa found insulting. "The vultures have already picked this story dry and found nothing. The views of my countrymen dictate how I rule, but I cannot control how they choose to live. I took a train to Toulouse last week to visit their so-called commune and if they wish to settle into some form of wizard commonage, they have that right. That is nothing I have the power to do anything about as long as they follow the law."

"And Toulouse, that's south of Paris right?" Melissa asked, unsure of what to say next. She tried to remember what her mother's other note cards said, but she could not.

"A lot of places are south of Paris."

"Did you take the train from Paris?"

"Yes."

"And why were you in Toulouse again?" The quick quotes quill had stopped writing.

"I told you, I was visiting the commune that they have established there." Gerard looked bored.

"And, uh, what did you do while you were there?"

"I visited some local farms, businesses. Is this going anywhere?" Melissa shuddered, because she knew that it was not.

"Of course, Minister." She tried to think of another question. "How was the conference?"

"What conference?"

"In—" Melissa stuttered. Her mother had a question about a conference somewhere. Where that conference had been held; however, was a mystery to her. "You know. That conference in—"

"Do you mean the Berlin Conference?"

"Yes!" Gerard had saved her. "Yes, the Berlin conference. Tell us what it was all about."

"I went with the head of my Department of Relations and met with the heads of many wizarding nations. As I'm sure you must know, we were there discussing the Voldemort problem, and what measures should be taken if something like that were to happen again."

"And what was the conclusion?" The quick quotes quill had not yet begun to move.

"There was none. The conference resumes next week where we'll make a final decision."

"And where did you go after the conference?"

"I went to Toulouse the following morning." Melissa's heart skipped a beat when she heard that. Maybe she would be able to turn this interview around. "I fail to see the point to all of your questions if you aren't going to be taking down notes—"

"Toulouse? You went there immediately after the conference?"

"That's what I just said, yes."

"Funny, I thought you said you took the train to Toulouse from Paris, not Berlin. Am I right in thinking that?" The quick quotes quill sprang to life, writing notes faster than a speeding train. "And I know that Berlin is too far away from Paris to apparate, so you must have ridden the train."

"Yes, I took the train from overnight train from Berlin to Paris, and then to Toulouse."

"There is a direct line from Berlin to Toulouse. I graduated from Beauxbatons, so I know. Why did you stop off in Paris first?"

"I met with," Melissa noticed that the French Minister stuttered for a moment. "The head of my Department of Relations. I met with him."

"I thought you said he was in Berlin with you. Why would you need to meet with him in Paris if you two had the entire train ride to talk?"

"I saw him off in Paris and then continued to Toulouse. Why are my travel arrangements of any concern to you?"

"Why are you being defensive about them? You still could have taken the train from Berlin to Toulouse."

"My private matters are my concern." Melissa smiled when she saw a bead of sweat trickle down from Gerard's forehead.

"I'm figuring that an overnight train from Berlin to Paris takes about eleven hours, and the morning train from Paris to Toulouse would take about six. For you to have ridden the line from Berlin to Paris and still had time to catch the morning train to Toulouse, you would have had at most an hour or even maybe just thirty minutes in Paris. Why were you in Paris?"

"This interview is over." Gerard stood to leave.

"I remember from my time at Beauxbatons that you had an affair with a Paris woman three years ago, am I correct?" Melissa knew she had him. If he chose to answer, he would have to reveal whatever it was that he had been doing in Paris. If he chose not to answer, the quick quotes quill would do the rest. Her mother would be proud.

"What in Merlin's name are you implying?"

"Well, let's say that you were in Paris maybe thirty minutes to an hour. Given boarding time, in thirty minutes you could have had a quickie. In an hour, let's just say you'd be getting full service."

"That is absurd conjecture, young girl. I am leaving." He motioned to his companions and they escorted him to the door. "This woman disgusts me. I have never been so insulted in my life!" Helen was aghast and tried to convince Girard to stay, but his escort pushed her aside and left without a second glance.

"What on Earth did you do?" Helen asked. She began to berate Melissa for unwomanly conduct and insulting a dignitary, but Melissa did not care. She smiled, knowing that she had gotten her story and her mother and everyone else was going to love it.

Rita Skeeter popped the cork out of a bottle of champagne and the light, bubbly liquid came rushing through the top of the bottle and down her slender, elongated fingertips.

"I knew you'd manage to get him somehow, darling," Rita said, "but I didn't expect it to be in such a sensational and fantastic manner your first time around the block. I suppose what they say is true though. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"I don't think it was really as sensational as you think, mother," Melissa said. "It was just true. He was actually doing something suspicious." Her mother and Beaty did not appear to have heard her, or if they did, they did not care.

Melissa had returned to the Diagon Alley offices of the Daily Prophet a hero. Her story made such a splash that Beaty not only promised her front page of the Friday morning paper, but also a teaser ad in that night's edition of the evening profit. Melissa assumed that the latter olive branch was not meant for her, but was meant to drum up readership for the Friday morning paper, which would not come out for another three days. Rita seemed to be the least enthusiastic about her daughter's success out of everyone at the prophet and instead she seemed to have expected it. Even if her mother was not as excited as she could have been, Melissa was still glad that she did not let her down.

Now that the work day had ended and most of the prophet staff had gone home, Rita and Beaty decided to celebrate Melissa's success with her.

"It's quite magical how far you've come from venereal pixies and the like since you started working with the prophet, Melissa," Beaty said. "I'm sure that you'll have a bright future here with us."

"Yes, she will," Rita said, responding for her. "I'm sure of it." She took a sip of champagne and smiled at her daughter. Something seemed off to Melissa in that smile. There was something disquieting in the way that she curled her lips, and maybe even sinister. Melissa tried not to pay any mind to it.

"Speaking of your future work," Beaty said, breaking an unacknowledged silence, "I have another article for you to work on, now that you've been screened by the ministry."

"I think I know what the subject is already," Melissa said.

"Do you now?" Beaty asked. "How? How could you know that? I haven't even told you yet."

"You said that because I've been screened, you have an article for me. It's all still fresh in my mind, and I can have a draft on your desk by tomorrow morning."

"A draft. What are you talking about, Melissa?" Beaty asked. "I'm confused."

"The screening article that you were going to ask me to write," Melissa said. "The Ministry's screening process is malicious, invasive and intrusive and needs to be exposed to the general public. If they can do that to a journalist, who knows what they do to criminals, am I right?"

Beaty's eyes goggled out of his head at Melissa as if she were some odd breed of pink thestral. She half expected him to poke at her to make sure that she was real.

"I think that our Melissa might have the wrong idea, Beaty," Rita said.

"Right, the screening process," said Beaty as he returned to reality, "is not what I wanted an article on."

"Well you should want an article on it," Melissa said.

Beaty paused for a moment as if trying to find the right way to phrase his response. "That's not the sort of article that our readers would appreciate, I think," Beaty said. He set down his champagne and itched the side of his face.

"Why not? It's a great story, and it's even sensational enough for the Prophet's audience. It's also true. How could you not want to run the story?"

"I just don't think that it fits with the theme of our paper. That sort of investigation into the aurors and Ministry dealings is something more in line with a paper like the Quibbler. Anyway, the story that I wanted you to write was—"

"What theme?" Melissa could not believe what she was hearing from the head editor. He had jumped at the idea of running a story on the French Minister's sex scandal, but refused to consider one on intrusion and prisoner rights. He was shortchanging the paper for some ideology and she did not agree. "We write whatever the headlines are, and I think this story could make headlines. What could be worse than a paper like the Quibbler printing the story before we did?"

"It's not a story though."

"Mother," Melissa said, "You would jump on this story, too. Wouldn't you?"

"Melissa, I think you should just drop the issue," Rita said. "Beaty has another task for you that he thinks is more important. And you work for him, don't you?" She gave Melissa a wink and took another sip of her drink. This was the first time that Melissa had a genuine urge to write an article since she began working for the Prophet, and neither Beaty nor her mother was going to stop her. She knew that this was not the right time though. She let Beaty win the argument and continue.

"Right, as I was saying," Beaty said, "the Ministry is giving a press viewing for the testing of a new set of time turners and I want someone there. Now that you've been screened by the aurors, you're the logical choice."

"What about my mother?" Melissa asked. "Isn't she the senior reporter here?"

"She is, but she's preoccupied with more important business, and you're my only other reporter who already has Ministry clearance. Be at the Department of Mysteries at nine in the morning tomorrow."

"I'll be there, don't worry," Melissa said. "What sort of article would you like on this time turner demonstration?"

"I mainly want a press release of sorts," Beaty said, "If you could also do some research and provide a brief analysis and history of time turners. Nothing too involved though." Her new assignment sounded unimportant, and a complete waste of time.

Melissa nodded an apathetic acceptance and took her first sip of her mother's champagne. Beaty and Rita began to reminisce about some story they had ran on the Egyptians that Melissa had no recollection of, and her mind wandered back to Beaty's refusal of her article proposal. Beaty had turned down a profit fetching headline, and the only reason that Melissa could conjure for that was that he was afraid to attack the Ministry. Or maybe he was not afraid. Maybe he did not want to. Whatever the reason was, Melissa disagreed with it and she would try again the next day.

Later that night when she was back in her apartment, away from the bustling world of the Prophet, she sat at her desk and began to compose her article. For Melissa, writing had always been a confused passion. She enjoyed the act of penning poetry and stories, watching her creativity oozing out onto the parchment from the tip of her quill. She allowed her writing mind to wander and it would come back to her, dashing along the slopes of her letters and dancing to the rhythm of her words. When she was finished and reunited with reality, she would either accept what she had written, or disapprove entirely. Many of her recent assignments from the Prophet, and even the articles that she had written for the Beauxbatons school paper, had felt forced. She was in the habit of using her mother's best articles as templates to base her work on, but tonight, it was her words and her structure that flowed from the tip of her quill. It was a rare occurrence for her to approve of a finished product of journalism, and more often than not, she would reject a column that she had written, scraping the parchment, rolling it into an angry ball, blotching her hands with ink in the process. Then she would throw it as far as she could and begin again. However, that night was one of those unusual nights where she was proud of her work. And it was her work. After the article was done and edited, she folded it into thirds and slipped it into an envelope. She addressed it to Beaty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 3: Quidditch and Heartstrings**

Puddlemere United's chasers continued to pass the quaffle down the field, back and forth between them. They evaded the Harpies' chasers at every turn and the quaffle moved almost as fast as a snitch through their practiced formations. Gwenog Jones, the Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, remained on the defensive hovering close to her keeper. The Puddlemere chasers were now in shooting range of the goals and the crowd roared with excitement. Wilda Grifiths, a Puddlemere chaser, got hold of the quaffle and flung it towards the Harpies' goalposts, but Jones intercepted the shot. She swung her bat into the quaffle and sent it flying back toward Grifiths who never even saw it coming. Before the crowd knew what had happened, Grifiths was on the ground unconscious after being knocked from her broom by a blow to the head.

"Traitor!" Ginny Weasley shouted from the stands. "You got what you deserved. No one poaches players from my Harpies and gets away with it." The people in the crowd around her began to glare, and Harry noticed that one colossal wizard wearing a torn Puddlemere jersey had begun tightening a fist.

"Ginny," Harry said as he put a hand on her shoulder to calm her, "maybe you shouldn't be saying stuff like that at an away game in a stadium full of Puddlemere fans."

"Why?" Ginny asked. "I've got a right to my opinion, don't I? I bought these tickets for seats in their stupid ass stadium so that I could see my Harpies kick ass!"

"I paid for the tickets," Harry said. The two of them had been living together in the months since Ginny had finished school at Hogwarts. Mrs. Weasley did not approve and had tried to drag her daughter back home to The Burrow by her toenails, but Ginny would have none of it. She was an independent woman now and would not let anyone control her. Her mother no longer held sway over her, and not even Harry had a genuine influence on her daily actions. Nonetheless, he was glad that Ginny had decided to live with him. When her birthday came, he bought the tickets as both a birthday present and house warming gift for her.

Harry had known that if the Harpies were playing and Ginny could find tickets, she would drop whatever she was doing and rush to the game. He was unsurprised by Ginny's more than ecstatic reaction to finding the tickets tucked under their bathroom mirror. It was the morning of her birthday and she had just finished breakfast in bed when she went into the bathroom to get ready for the day. She had no sooner shut the door than she came screaming out of it with the tickets in hand to smother Harry with the longest and most painful hugs he had ever received.

The Harpies chasers had retrieved the quaffle and were poised to score, but the Puddlemere keeper blocked the shot, smacking the ball to one of his own chasers with the back of his broom. The Puddlemere chasers went on the offensive and scored on the Harpies. The score was forty to thirty with Puddlemere ahead. However, Harry knew that would be difficult for Puddlemere to keep their lead now that Jones had knocked a player out of the sky.

"It doesn't matter who got the tickets." Ginny said, "We're here and we paid. And what's the worst that could happen?"

"You clearly haven't seen the men you're sitting next to," Harry said, motioning toward a large group of thugs. They were drunk and all of them were dressed in Puddlemore gear. "I suppose the stadium officials did make everyone turn their wands over at the door for safety. I don't feel much safer though; just more vulnerable."

"Now this is a sight," Ginny said, "Harry Potter, the boy who lived and killed he-who-was-until-recently-not-to-be-named is running scared from a group of drunken punks. Whatever is his defenseless and helpless girlfriend to think of that?" She smirked at Harry and then laughed.

"She's supposed to run and hide with him," Harry said. He placed his hand onto hers and gazed into her shining bronze eyes. "You're probably right though. I'm worrying over nothing. Stadium security is competent, right?"

"Are you serious?" Ginny asked. She chuckled at a joke that Harry had not realized he made. "I'd much rather have my wand to protect me than trust whatever rent-a-cops that the stadium hired. Don't worry though. Everything will be fine." Ginny molded his fingertips into the gaps between hers, holding them tight and continued watching the game. The texture of her hand was like fine leather, smooth to the touch, but rough in its own feminine way. It was comforting though, and Harry was able to focus on the game once more.

Puddlemere United was a better team overall than the Harpies, but Gwenog Jones was a one woman war machine. She single handedly defended the goal on multiple occasions, playing the roles of keeper, beater, and even chaser at times. Jones was Ginny's favorite Harpy and Harry could easily see why. Her burly, athletic, African figure made her seem like a lioness out for fresh meat. Like any tauntress, she played with her food before she ate it. Multiple times, she let one of the Puddlemere chasers get close enough to the goal to take a shot, only to lob a bludger at him from his blindside. If the bludger hit its mark, the Puddlemere player was out of the game, but if it missed, they would lose focus long enough for the Harpies to recover the quaffle and score. This odd maneuver was executed with precision every time and it appeared to even be a practiced technique and. It only took Harry a few plays to figure out the strategy, but Puddlemere failed again and again to counter it. Jones punished them for their neglect and Puddlemere continued to lose points and players.

Harry had to admit that Jones put on quite a show and Ginny loved every second of it. For Ginny, the blood and gore of the game was just as important as who won, but Harry was most enamored by the flying. He enjoyed watching the formations of the teams, and the individual rolls, dodges and feints that the chasers executed on their way to the goals. It reminded him of a time that he knew was long gone. It used to be him on the field, dodging the bludgers and chasing down the snitch with the fierceness and determination of an Eagle. Harry had not flown since he began his job at the Auror office. It pained him to be grounded, but he had to work to support himself. There was just no time for flying.

Puddlemere maintained their lead through the first half of the game despite losing three players, but in the second half the Harpies came back with a vengeance. The game had resumed and within minutes, Jones was able to hunt down a bludger to put to good use. She smashed it toward a Puddlemere chaser holding the quaffle near the middle of the court. He was able to avoid her attack, but the bludger flew past him and hit its true target: the Puddlemere keeper. Ginny screamed with excitement as he fell from the sky and the Harpies recovered the ball to score again. The rest of the crowd glowered in frustration.

After that last hit, everyone knew the game was over. Puddlemere had held their own until that point, but with four players down finishing the game was simply a formality. Puddlemere took a time out to re-organize their team. Before half time, they had repurposed one of their beaters as a chaser, and now it looked like their seeker would have to temporarily take the position of keeper. The position switch would keep Puddlemere in the game, but with their seeker preoccupied with quaffles, he would not be able to see the snitch before the Harpies did. Harry began to sense anger building in the people around them.

"Go, Jones! Keep knocking them—"

"Ginny, stop." Harry covered her mouth to keep her from protesting. "I've got a bad feeling that something is about to go very wrong." He took his hand off of Ginny's mouth and began scanning the crowd. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but it felt as though a quiet sense of foreboding had hijacked the spirit of the game.

"_Expelliarmus!_" It was Ginny. She had her wand and was aiming it somewhere into the crowd below. Harry saw a wand fly from the hand of a fan in the section of the stadium beneath them. It looked like he had been aiming at Jones. The man's eyes darted up at Ginny and he pointed shouting something that was drowned out by the referee's whistle. Jones had been called out on a foul. "Get down, Harry!"

Harry dropped to the floor and as he did, a man flew from behind him and collided into the stadium chairs in front of him. Before he knew what was happening, Harry found himself in the midst of a brawl. Ginny was slinging spells as hordes of Puddlemere fans coming at them from all sides. Harry jumped up to help Ginny, socking one fan in the jaw with a solid punch. Another one came and he nailed him in the gut.

"_Accio Phoenix core wand_," Ginny said. Harry spotted his wand floating up through the stadium toward her. He grabbed it out of the air and began fighting the crowd, back to back with his girlfriend.

"_Vespertilio muci_!" The bat-boogey hex. It was Ginny's personal favorite. Soon, large pieces of winged snot were fighting alongside them, pelting themselves at the attackers.

"How did you get your wand, Ginny?" Harry said as he fought off a large, muscled fan.

"You never give your wand up at a game. Everyone knows that. Most people bring spares or fakes just in case."

She was right. Others began drawing wands from their pockets, bags and even out of their cleavage. The entire stadium was in chaos. Stadium security forces were entering the stands to try and break up the fights but there were too few of them to make a real difference. Most were dragged into the messy fist fights themselves.

"We have to get out of here," Ginny said. "There are too many of them." She flung a curse at a rather large witch who staggered back into another brawl where she was trampled in an instant.

"How do you expect we do that?"

"I'm working on it." A few more curses and they had fought off most of the brawlers in their area. Many were unconscious on the ground and in the seats, but some were rising back to their feet, ready to continue the fight. "_Reducto!_" Ginny flung her curse at the stands, blowing open a path to the lower mezzanine.

"Good thinking," Harry said. He grabbed her by the hand. "Let's go." They climbed down the mountain of rubble, fighting as they went. They were in one of the stadium's outer rings where vendors opened for overpriced snacks and souvenirs. Most of them were pre-occupied fighting off rabid fans trying to profiteer from the pandemonium.

Harry led Ginny through the rancor and out onto a balcony near to the ground. They leapt over the balcony railing, tumbling down onto a hill behind the stadium. The ground was slippery and wet with mud and Harry lost his footing and slid down the hill toward the stadium. Ginny reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet.

"We should be out of range of the stadium's anti-disapparition jinx," Harry said. "The Leaky Cauldron, all right?" Ginny nodded in understanding and Harry readied his wand, picturing the destination in his mind.

A quick pop and a whirlwind later, Harry found himself in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron bar in London. In a moment, Ginny appeared next to him.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine," Ginny said. She glanced around the alleyway, still prepared for a fight. Then she lowered her wand and the adrenaline drained from her face. The events of the game began to sink in, now cemented into reality. She began looked herself over for injuries and then stopped and cursed at the air. "Oh no!"

"What?" Harry asked. "What happened?"

"I don't believe it!" Ginny said. "I tore my pants."

"You tore your pants?" Harry asked. Her comment was ludicrous given what they had just survived and he started chuckling under his breath. It was a light snigger at first, but it turned into a full blown, keel over laugh. Ginny began to laugh with him and the tenseness in her muscles subsided. "We just started a riot at the Puddlemere-Harpies game, and you're worried about your torn pants?"

"Yeah, I guess we're really in trouble now, right?" The two of them continued to laugh until both of them were forced to rest against the side of the building and breathe from lack of oxygen. As they sat, their pores continued to bleed water and salt, while their stress evaporated into the night sky.

"You know we're lucky to be alive, right?" Harry said.

"That's why I think I had so much fun," Ginny said. She cuddled up next to Harry, laying her head on his shoulder. "Thank you for my birthday present."

"It was no trouble at all," Harry said, "and I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

The Evening Prophet arrived at the Leaky Cauldron in the hands of a runner just as Harry and Ginny were finishing their second pints of butterbeer.

"Disaster at tonight's Harpies-Puddlemere Game," the runner said. "Read all about it!" The Evening Prophet was supposed to be distributed by owl; however, the Daily Prophet ran a special service that hand delivered to the Leaky Cauldron bar patrons as soon as the paper rolled off of the presses.

"I'll take one," the bartender said.

"Here too," Harry said.

"One knut please," the runner said. Harry paid him and read the article written by Arcturus Tweedle.

"Well spit it out. What does it say happened?" Ginny asked.

"It says that there was a riot," Harry said, "which we already know. Apparently the teams became involved and the remaining three Puddlemere players are in the hospital with severe head wounds. Jones is in custody, on suspect of assaulting the Puddlemere players."

"That'll never stick," Ginny said. "The way she swings a bat, those Puddlemere players will wake up as if they had been hit with memory charms."

"It also says that one of the Harpies players is out with a broken leg. The doctors say that it will mend nicely, although she may need to sit out next week's game to allow time to fully heal."

"She's the second player out this season. They were already planning to hold tryouts for reserve chasers after Menidina got pregnant, but this makes the issue all the more urgent."

"That's not bad though when you consider that the entire Puddlemere team is bedridden right now."

"I know it's just—"

She was distracted by a mug smashing behind them. A drunken wizard in a very large black robe had fallen out of his chair and he ran out of the bar, pursued by three other bar patrons. Harry wondered what had happened that caused them to leave in such a rush. The bartender chased after them, but he came back empty handed. After the spectacle cleared, Harry turned back to Ginny, finding her pensive and staring into an empty space above the rafters. Her solemn eyes appeared dim as if she were commiserating the loss of a loved one.

"You were saying, Ginny." Harry said, trying to bring her back to reality.

"Oh," she said, "yes, I think it's unfortunate. I mean about the Harpies. Do you want to get out of here? It's rather loud."

Harry nodded his approval and they left, leaving ten sickles on the bar for their drinks. They walked through the bright and bustling streets of London, reminiscing about family and old friends. It was soothing to have a night on the town all to themselves. They had gotten into a routine where Harry would come home from work and Ginny would have dinner ready for him and on the table. They would talk about the day's events and then after dinner they would settle down to read or do chores around the house. It was a simple life that Harry enjoyed, but it was nice to have a release from the drudge of domestic life.

They found themselves on the bank of the River Thames and Ginny gestured to a bench close to the water. They sat together in silence, enjoying the scenery, but Harry could sense Ginny stiffening her poise.

"What is it, Ginny?" Harry asked. She shook her head, never looking at him, and instead continued gazing off into the water. "I can tell when something is bothering you. If there's anything wrong, you can tell me."

"Nothing's wrong," she said, "I've just been thinking."

"Good thinking or bad thinking?"

"Good thinking, I think." Ginny turned to Harry, ensnaring his eyes in hers. Her eyes were determined, but sad, and Harry knew that she had just made a decision that would affect them both. He would have no say in the decision, but nonetheless would have to abide by it and respect it. "I'm going to try out for the Harpies, Harry."

"Oh, that's it?" Harry asked. He had expected worse and was more surprised by her decision than bothered as he had expected to be. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Ginny. The team would be lucky to have you."

"I want to. I really do want to, and I'm glad that you think it's a good idea and all, but I'm worried what it will do to us. Professional Quiditch is a full time commitment and then some."

"It's not going to do anything to us, Ginny. I can handle things around the house while you're gone and we'll still have time for each other. And if we don't have the time, we'll make the time. However hard it's going to be, I'll support you. If it's what you want to do, you have to do it, Ginny. That's it." She smiled, knowing that he meant what he said.

"Come on," Ginny said, standing up, "It's late. We should be getting back soon." Harry nodded in agreement and stood, holding his hand out to help her off of the bench. She took it and they apparated home together.

They arrived at the apartment just after midnight. Ginny went straight to the bedroom to change into pajamas while Harry stayed out in the main room and poured himself a glass of water. The apartment was bare for the most part, despite how small as the space was. They had a couch, chair and bookshelf in the living room as well as a table and chairs to eat off of. But that was all that they needed, so they bought nothing more. Harry sat down in his armchair in the living room and picked up the novella that he was reading. It was a mystery set in early 20th century written about a young Auror who was hunting an insane doctor that was trying to take over the world. The work was reminiscent of the Muggle tale of Sherlock Holms, which Harry had read when he was in Muggle school during the first years of his life. He was engrossed in the novel and did not hear Ginny sneaking up behind him. She laid her gentle hands on his shoulders and began massaging them, curling out the knots and tense muscles that had built up over a long day's work. She moved in closer, hovering just shy of total intimacy and continued to knead the skin into small mounds of dough, then smoothing them out again. Her breath on his shoulder was hot like a welcoming fireplace, warming him inside. He put to her arm and drew her into a smooth embrace and their lips melded in the heat of her fire.

Ginny caught hold of the collar of his shirt and ripped him from the chair. She rushed him into the bedroom, slamming the door behind them. She yanked him over to her, capturing him in a firm kiss. Then she thrust him down onto the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt and gnawed at his chest with her teeth as she went; the strands of her ginger hair were each small fingertips, exploring the recesses of his body. Next it was his pants and Harry's breathing grew erratic, his pulse skipping beats each time her mouth changed its position. Her minx eyes excited him as they stared across the bed at him and he felt as if she was going to pounce on him with her claws outstretched. He wanted her to. Instead she began to inspect the area around his little body with her eyes, and then her fingernails.

Ginny grabbed her wand from the bedside table and muttered the contraception charm. Then she was on top of him, wrapping her slender legs around him, hands pressed to his chest as if she were riding a broomstick. Flying again was a euphoric sensation. He rode the peaks and troughs of the currents like a pro, and Ginny squealed with excitement, pleasured by the wild ride.

When they finished after a long, memorable flight and turned out the lights to go to bed, Harry was able to sleep like a tired baby. He had never felt more content with his life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 4: The Essence of Time**

"Well good morning, Melissa," Tweedle said. He had been hard at work when Melissa came into the office. She had not seen him look up from his work once.

"Morning, Tweedle," Melissa said. "How did you know it was me?"

"I didn't have to see you to know who it was, Melissa. I know everything without knowing it, and see everything without seeing it. I am the lone eye in a desert of flesh. Normal people might feel, taste, smell or hear, but I see things as they are."

"Huh? What in the world are you saying?" Melissa asked. "You're just a sports reporter, dumb in-dee-d by nature." She emphasized each syllable with careful precision. Tweedle spun his chair around to face her and adjusted his glasses. His narrow, slanted eyes seemed perplexed to her, and humored at the same time. But then again, that could have been because he was Chinese.

"Don't think I didn't catch what you did there," Tweedle said. "It was clever, but I saw that coming. Everyone did, I'm sure. I see everything, including that column that you just slipped onto Beaty's desk. You know that it will never get accepted."

"How do you know?" Melissa asked. "Did your 'eye' see it already?"

"I didn't need to see it." Tweedle returned to penning his article. "The mere fact that you slipped into the office early before anyone else got here shows me that you didn't want to hand it to him yourself. That tells me that even you don't expect him to run it."

"I wanted to stop by early because I'm due at the ministry in an hour. I won't be coming back here later today, so I figured I'd drop it off now. Why are you here so early?"

"Last night's Puddlemere-Harpies game ended in some rabid brawl," Tweedle said. He let loose an extended, cacophonous yawn. "With the Harpies' captain imprisoned and multiple players injured in the hospital, I've been here all night writing."

"Good luck with that," Melissa said. In truth, she hoped that Tweedle would fall asleep at his desk and his face would fall into a puddle of ink. He was too lucky for that to happen though. Melissa never bought into the arts of divination and clairvoyance because to her they seemed like just a bunch of vague and speculative jumble, like some kooky riddle that not even a Sphinx could conjure up. Tweedle seemed to possess a different sort of clairvoyance though. Despite his mumble about sight and senses, Melissa had noticed that his predictions about the outcomes of Quidditch games were too often sound to be normal. As a result, he was even banned from participating in most betting pools. To be fair though, he did write the sports column of the Prophet. It was possible that he was a better reporter than she would have liked to give him credit for.

"I'm sure that you will learn something constructive in your interview today," Tweedle said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. You'd better run along, or you'll be late." Tweedle was right; she had stayed too long talking to him. She snapped open her bag to make sure that she had quill, ink and parchment and then she left Tweedle to his writing, or whatever it was that he was doing there. He was engrossed in his work as she left, but she could not shake the feeling that he was watching her. According to him, he always was.

Harry was always cautious walking through the Department of Mysteries. Not only did it seem like the department was starting and cancelling projects on a daily basis, which meant that the contents of the rooms were never the same, but it also seemed that the position of each room in the department was in a state of constant flux. The confusing maze of rooms that he had been introduced to during his fifth year at Hogwarts was even more jumbled than he had imagined them. The entrance chamber was the only room that even held a consistent number of doors, and there was no telling how many rooms, offices and laboratories the Department of Mysteries contained because the blueprints had been eaten during an incident years ago that involved a Cerberus and a flying pig.

After ambling through a project being conducted on the effects of moonlight on a werewolf trapped in a devil's snare, he found himself in the Room of Time. The Room of Time was one of a select group rooms in the Department of Mysteries that was omnipresent, though its position would change like all of the other rooms. It was similar to the room that Harry remembered walking through five years ago. The ceiling was filled with an expanse of glistening white lights that were coming from a magnanimous crystal bell jar in the corner of the room. Adorning the walls were a vast array of clocks of every shape and size from grandfather clocks to watches, all of which were the cause of an incessant ticking that pervaded every corner of the room. Harry had asked an Auror once why the room was kept ticking. The response that he received was that the unspeakables that studied time kept it that way to keep others out. The only change that Harry could discern in the room was that the shattered cabinet of time turners had been replaced by a curious gold leaf mural of a sycamore tree. Harry thought the tree seemed out of place, and he could not determine how the tree fit with the broader theme of time. Trees grew from saplings and would stand tall until they wilted and died, which would take time, but the same could be said of people or animals.

"Mr. Potter, come over here," a wizard said from across the room. His long, unkempt hair was streaked white and silver and he appeared at first to be a man aged with time. But as Harry approached, he noticed that this wizard's facial features and aging lines still exhibited the perfection of youth. The man before him could not have been aged a day past forty. He was wearing a majestic cerulean robe imprinted with silver clocks, all of which showed the time to be five minutes until midnight.

"Are those them?" Harry asked, pointing to a small table holding four golden devices that he assumed were time turners. They were similar to the hourglass time turner that Hermione had used in her third year; however there had been significant alterations to the design since then. The hour glass was now smaller, and encased within a polished clock face. Protruding from the hourglass were a minute hand and an hour hand, colored in the same ivory color as the sand within the time turner. The last and most dramatic change was that these time turners were not attached to golden necklaces, as they had been before. Now they were attached on opposite ends with leather straps. Had Harry not known that they were time turners, he could have taken the golden trinkets for elegant, but unusual watches.

"Yes, Mr. Potter," the wizard said, "those watches are them. You can call me Professor Epoch. I'm the head researcher on this project, and I am temporarily in charge of the Room of Time."

"Professor, sir?" Harry asked. The title did not seem to fit him.

"Yes, Professor," Professor Epoch said. "Technically, you should call me doctor, but I despise the connotation that title carries. Professors impart knowledge onto others, while Doctors tend to hoard it. I'm just more comfortable with the implications of the former. Is the ticking bothering you?"

"A little bit, sir," Harry said. "How did you know?"

Professor Epoch produced his wand and aimed it into the ground. "_Silencio!_" he said. The room came to a grinding halt and Harry's thoughts were clear once more. "Shall I just say that it's a pleasure to meet you again?"

"Meet me again, sir?" Harry asked. He had no recollection of Professor Epoch; nor could he remember seeing him in passing somewhere. "I've never met you before in my life, have I?"

"Of course you've never met me before, Mr. Potter. You should remember though that everything is relative." Harry had no idea what he meant by that but it sounded important.

Other people had begun to file into the room and soon the space was packed with the press, and other ministry officials. Harry noticed that one girl that was hovering by the press looked identical to Rita Skeeter. Her petite golden curls were carbon copies of Rita's and her reptile skinned bag could have come right out of Rita's closet. It was this girl's youth that betrayed Rita's image. Harry saw her as a vibrant and beautiful young woman that conveyed a different sort of determination than the rest of the press around her. Her vulture-like companions were clamoring for a view of the time turners, each trying to spy over the heads of the people in front of them. Many were trying in vain to attract the attention of the unspeakables, but not her. This not-quite Rita Skeeter conveyed a refreshing serenity within the chaos of her peers. She lifted her quick quotes quill from her bag with a lazy sense of calm that made it seem as if she had all the time in the world to waste. She sucked on the tip of her quill, waiting for her turn to view the time turners; it was refreshing to see a patient member of the press, but it was also possible that she was bored.

"Attention everyone," Professor Epoch said, "We are about to begin." The press ceased its squawking and the room began to grow apprehensive as they awaited the test. Porfessor Epoch led Harry over to the table with the time turners. He grabbed one and slapped it onto Harry's wrist. The leather straps magically adjusted to the shape and form of his arm, and Harry was ready, but nervous.

"I didn't realize that there were going to be people from the press here," Harry said under his breath.

"Are you camera shy?" Professor Epoch asked. "It's the first testing of new time turners in over three-hundred years. Of course people are going to get excited. It'll be the biggest thing since the confundus charm for an hour, but then it will settle and people will forget about us by tomorrow. If you screw up and look like an idiot, no one will care. Now, I want you to turn your minute hand backwards by exactly forty five minutes and then press the hourglass into the watch face. Before you do, go stand on that red x in the center of the room."

"Forty five minutes, Professor?" Harry asked. He did not want to mess up his test, lest something went wrong. The professor nodded and Harry did as he was asked. When he pressed the hourglass into the watch, the world around him began to roll and twirl on some uncertain axis. He felt dizzy as light and figures pulsated by him like a Muggle cartoon on fast forward. The feeling was similar to what he remembered from his third year at Hogwarts, but much more intense and jarring. Then he was there, standing in the Room of Time.

When Harry had gone back in time before with Hermione, they had travelled from Ron's bedside in the infirmary to some musty broom closet where they would not be seen. This time, Harry stood where he had just come from: on the red x in the center of the room of time. The only difference was that the press was gone and the ticking was back. A very surprised and delighted Professor Epoch was standing in front of him.

"It works!" Professor Epoch said. "Just as I will intend, you will end up exactly forty five minutes in the past."

"What? You didn't know it would work?" Harry asked as he padded himself down, looking for injuries. "I'm all right then?"

"You look fine to me," Epoch said. His eyes darted across Harry's body, looking him over. "Well, tell me how you feel."

"Fine I suppose," Harry said. "The ride was a bit bumpy though. Why did I end up here though? The last time I used a time turner, I ended up somewhere else."

"The temporal transition in unperfected. We're working on it." Epoch began taking notes. "As for your location, that's something that we haven't been able to replicate from the original design. Again, we're working on it. We'd rather test it and have you come back here, than have you end up in the middle of the Atlantic and drown."

"So is this what you meant when you said that you had met me before?"

"Will I say that? I suppose I will if you're telling me. Time is a relative phenomenon, Harry. The things that you know about thirty minutes from now, I have no recollection of. If the Minister of Magic had died of food poisoning, only you would know. Relative to your timeline, you've already met me, but I have not met you before in my life."

"Wait a moment," Harry said. The professor was much too forthcoming to be a Department of Mysteries employee. "Aren't you an unspeakable? Are you allowed to be telling me any of this?"

"No, Mr. Potter, I am not an unspeakable," the Professor said. Harry noticed that liked to speak with his hands, and here, he waved them back in forth for a much stronger negative reaction than his voice alone could produce. "The unspeakables come find people like me when they get stuck. I took no vow of secrecy, but my work is limited to the time turner project to reduce the number of secrets that I can spill after a long night at the pub. Just in case, it might be best if we keep this little conversation between us. By the way, my name is Professor Epoch. I teach theoretical transfiguration, quantum physics and temporal mechanics at a small school in America called the Massachusetts Institute of Magic in Salem, or MIM, for short as we say. I am native to England though."

"I'm pleased to meet you then, Professor. By the way, would you turn off the clocks? It's giving me a minor headache."

"Yes, of course, my boy." Professor Epoch pulled his wand from his robes and flicked it toward the ground, and the clocks fell silent once more. "Tell me, is the room very cluttered forty five minutes from now? Does the press swarm the place?"

"Am I allowed to be telling you information about the future, Professor?"

"It doesn't matter. I will know, but I couldn't change it. Your future has already been written and no matter what you do, you cannot alter it. Even if you told me to keep out the inevitable droves of the press, they would find a way it. Some ministry official or other would force my hand, or something or other. Because the press was there when you came back in time, when you go back to the future there must and will be loads of press there, even if you try and stop them. While many temporal theorists like to picture wild fantasies of skewed timelines and alternate universes, my experience has showed me the opposite viewpoint. From what I have seen, the universe has a peculiar way of keeping itself intact. If the timeline is ever threatened, it will correct itself in some way or another."

"So if I were to walk out of this room right now and find myself in this time period and force myself not to come to this test, I wouldn't be able to?"

"Correct. Either your past self would not listen to you and go anyway, or elect to take a different route, thereby avoiding you altogether. In extreme instances, we may encounter other barriers, such as unexplained locked doors, and even magical barriers that will prevent a time traveler from altering the timeline. The universe seems to operate on a paradigm of damage control. If the timeline must ever be altered, it will change the timeline in the least dramatic and least invasive way possible."

"Wait, then how am I here now?" Harry asked. His questioned seemed to throw Epoch off for a moment, but the professor regained his composure and waited for Harry to explain. "If I can't change events by going back in time, how are we even having this conversation? Aren't we changing events right now?"

"No, not necessarily Harry. This exact conversation probably occurred in your past. Neither you nor I would remember it because both of our present selves are just now experiencing it. What is happening now is called a time paradox, or a time loop. It's something that is going to come to pass inevitably and it is facilitated by time travel. I'll explain more about these later."

"Time travel is a confusing business, isn't it?"

"That's just it. It's surprisingly regular, yet still impossible to explain. Anyway, off you go. Back to the future with you." The professor shoved Harry back into the center of the room by the time turners. Harry wanted to protest, but before he could, he was already in position on the red x.

"What do you mean, time to go? I still don't understand any of this time traveling business."

"I figured as much, but it's all right. I'll explain it to you in the near future as we conduct more tests. I don't have much time to say goodbye though. I think I will decide to set the time turner for only a four or five minute trip. Our time is probably just about up."

"A five minute trip? Wait prof—" Before he could finish his sentence, Harry was back in the vortex of light. It was just as rough, if not more so as its appearance had come as a surprise. In no time at all, he was back. The white lights of time travel were replaced by the blinding camera flashes of the press. Reporters were calling out from all angles asking for interviews. The Ministry staff tried to quiet them, but they were drowned out by the crowing of the seagulls, descending on a lone piece of bread that a tourist had dropped onto the beach. It was Professor Epoch shooting bright purple sparks into the ceiling of light that quieted them.

"Gentlemen and ladies, Mr. Potter will not be taking any questions today," Professor Epoch said, "Thank you and have a nice day." The press went rabid with camera snaps and prodding questions yet again. The Professor ushered Harry over to a corner of the room and grabbed onto his arm. He was caught off guard again as they disapparated together and reappeared in a small office that Harry assumed belonged to the Professor. All four walls and even the door were made of chalk board. Countless equations and formulas and figures that Harry could never imagine trying to decipher or understand were scattered over most of the walls in one large mess. One wall however, was reserved for a diagram that looked like a tree. There were small notes written on the branches and Harry assumed that the diagram represented a chain of timelines. The words were written in such minute script and the letters were so tiny that he was unable to make out any of the professor's scrawling.

"Admiring my artwork?" the Professor said. He sat behind his desk and stared at the chalk drawing of the tree with a certain nostalgia that one would expect in someone looking at a photograph, remembering a time shared with a loved one.

"There's certainly a lot of it, Professor," Harry said, dislodging the professor from deep thought. "I thought that no one could apparate inside of the Ministry?"

"People working in the Department of Mysteries have a magical exemption to the anti-disapparition jinxes. It's a safety precaution, in case one of us needs to go somewhere really fast. On occasion we will abuse the privilege, however. For example, many of us use it to avoid unwanted guests, like the press. Would you like a drink?"

The professor pulled a dusty bottle of scotch from behind a tower of papers and opened it, pouring two glasses. He slid one towards Harry and motioned for him to drink. The beverage seemed very coarse in quality and there even appeared to be small white specs floating amongst the bronze liquor. The professor raised his glass to toast and then tossed it back into his throat, while Harry took the opportunity to dump it over his shoulder.

"Good stuff, right?" the professor said, to which Harry was quick to nod in agreement. "Now, I dragged you away from the press to discuss time travel in more detail than I was able to forty five minutes ago. As I said, time is relative, but it is also constant. You cannot change events that have already transpired. These calculations on my walls are proof of that."

"I'm not sure that you're entirely correct about that professor. I've had some personal experiences to the contrary." Harry was uncertain if the professor knew of his involvement in the escape of Sirius Black during his third year at Hogwarts, so he kept the exact details to himself, though it seemed like the professor knew what he was referring to.

"You're talking about your experience with Sirius Black and the Hippogriff, Buckbeak, wasn't it? I would offer two theories. First, it's possible that your use of the time turner did not save either the Hippogriff's life or your godfather's. I believe that the Hippogriff likely would have found a way to escape on his own, while Sirius Black may have escaped by other means. Your use of the time turner only served to cause a different outcome of the situation, but that outcome was nonetheless the same. The second theory is that the event in question was one of the time paradoxes that I had mentioned earlier. When you lived it the first time, the events of the future were happening before your eyes but you didn't know it. And then when you went back in time, you merely appeared to be altering the past."

Harry did not quite understand what the Professor was saying, but chose not to raise any more questions at the risk of sounding like an idiot. The Professor seemed to notice his pause and chose to continue his explanation. "Picture the many timelines like branches on a tree. Every decision we make will create three separate timelines: one where we succeed, one where we fail, and one where we choose not to act. Once the outcome of our timeline is determined, we cannot change it. If you were to fail and you went back in time to change the outcome, nothing that you did in the past would ever cause your endeavor to succeed. For instance, we experimented with saving a life once. It was a man whom we had known to be deceased, and we tried multiple times to save his life. He was hit by a car when he died. One of us tried to stop the car only to have it thrust in a different direction and it hit him from another angle. We attempted to warn him, but he insisted on crossing the road because he had to do something supposedly important. He told us that he would be careful, but he was hit nonetheless. We then tried in another attempt to disapparate him away to a safe place. We thought we had succeeded, but the following morning, he was hit by a bus on the way into work. No matter how hard we tried, we could not save that man's life. In the case of Sirius Black, he had been imprisoned and you hatched a plot to break him loose. You would not have been aware at the time of another plot to free him by either your future selves or someone else, so in that instance, you appeared to change the future. Are you understanding any of this?"

"Some," Harry said, "but I would like to know more."

"You will, Harry. You will."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 5: Greater Expectations**

On her way into work on Friday morning, Melissa decided to stop into Eeylops Owl Emporium. The Emporium occupied a tiny space toward the north end of Diagon Alley. Its façade was unimposing compared to many of the other more lavish shops that lined the street, and it was kept so dark inside that passerby who were unfamiliar with the store might think it was closed. Save for the owl cages hanging outside by the road, there was no innate quality about the place to draw in customers, but it did have a reputation for being the finest owl shop in London.

The owner, Duncan Kirkby, was outside tending to the display of owls when Melissa arrived. Duncan liked to showcase one of each owl outside of the shop so that people would know what breeds were available, as it would be impossible to determine from inside of the store. While the interior of the shop was not lightless, it was difficult to distinguish the colors of the birds. Browns looked identical to blacks, and grays and dirty whites all tended to blur together inside of the shop.

"Hello, Duncan," Melissa said. Duncan recognized her voice and turned around to greet her with a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes. He was an older man well past the retirement age and it showed in his hair and the lines on his face, but Duncan loved his owls too much to abandon them. Melissa had been coming to his shop for almost her entire life to look at the owls. Duncan always had a vast selection.

"Hello, my dear," Duncan said. "Are you here to pay a visit to your wisest group of friends?"

"Yes, that would be exactly why I'm here Duncan," Melissa said. He led her inside. "I see you have some new specimens in stock."

"Yes, I do. I acquired a new batch of them last week," Duncan said. "I also believe that congratulations are in order for you. Isn't that right?"

"Congratulations?" Melissa asked. "Whatever for?"

"Don't be humble, dear. I read your article in the morning paper. Making the front page is a great accomplishment for someone as young as you are."

"Well thanks, Duncan. I appreciate you saying so." Melissa had forgotten all about her article. It was unimportant to her in comparison to the article that she had left on Beaty's desk the previous morning. "I really like that Tawny owl that you have on the shelf on the left side. It's larger than normal, so I'll assume it's a female. The browns in its coloration are very beautiful in contrast to the streaks of white along its underparts."

"You've got a good eye," Duncan said. "Your ability to see the smallest details in this dark lighting has always fascinated me. Your knowledge of owls is even more impressive though. You've certainly come a long way since you were little. I remember the first time that you came in here with your mother. The two of you were looking to purchase one of my owls and you asked me, 'Mr. Duncan, why is it night time in you store.'" Duncan laughed at his own joke, but Melissa had not heard him. She was preoccupied by something disturbing that she'd caught out of the corner of her eye. Duncan's newest and now only hired hand had been staring at her since she entered the store. His name was Angelo, and he not much older than she was. He took care of the birds during business hours so that Duncan could focus on sales. Melissa had observed him feeding the owls from time to time or cleaning the cages. He did not require a ladder to reach the highest shelves in the store, as his height allowed him to tower over almost anyone that he met. Today, it looked like he was on grooming duty. He was brushing them down with caution, being careful not to ruffle any feathers. There was a strong sense of pride in the work he did and it was dignified, like there was nowhere that he would rather be, and no task that he would prefer to do. Then again, she imagined that was because no one else would hire him. He was a squib, a member of the non-magical underclass, and when he stared at her it sent shivers up her spine. She tried to ignore him, hoping that he would leave her alone. Instead, he held up a nervous hand and waved to her.

"Hi, Melissa," he said. "It's good to see you in the shop again." His voice was as soft and nervous like his strokes with the feather brush. He fancied her; it was obvious by the way that he was staring with his eyes wide open at her, but she was glad that he was too shy to ask her out. She never liked having to reject anyone, but she would have turned him down even though she felt sorry for his condition. Her mother would kill her if she knew that she was consorting with a squib, or even allowing one to consort with her.

"Hi," she said back, hoping that he would stop staring at her. He did not, so instead she tried focusing his attention away from her. "You're doing a great job with those birds. I don't want to distract you from your work though."

"Don't worry about it, you aren't distracting me," Angelo said. "Thank you though. It's difficult because they keep trying to nibble at my fingers through the gloves." Melissa was unsure what to say next, so instead she forced a smile, hoping that would satisfy him.

"Maybe its feeding time then," Duncan said, noticing Melissa's discomfort. "Off you go, boy. Grab the feed and start apportioning it for the birds." Angelo nodded and went into the back room and Melissa turned to Duncan to thank him. He seemed to understand, and shook his head before turning back to his owls.

"If you don't mind me asking, why do you keep him around?" Melissa asked, trying to sound as polite as possible. She could tell that Duncan was not fond of him either, but at the same time, she did not like to appear racist. Her mother had told her at a young age that squibs were undeserving of magic and should be outcast in society. Melissa never believed in such extremities, but the eeriness of squibs was still very much unsettling to her.

"He does very good work with my birds," Duncan said. "If he is unfit to be anything that a real wizard could be, he should at least have a chance to do something that he is great at. Many wizards and witches could be more sympathetic to people with his deformity. Squibs can be productive members of society, and many are."

"I agree with you that they should be given a chance, but it is still somewhat unsettling," Melissa said. Duncan looked at her askance, which was enough to communicate to Melissa that she had crossed a line. Embarrassed and a little ashamed, she took a step toward the door. "I should be going I have to be back at the Prophet to finish writing a column."

"All right then," Duncan said, smiling again, "you take care, Melissa. Come see us any time you like."

Melissa hurried away in order to avoid another encounter with Angelo. As she walked to the Daily Prophet offices, she thought about what Duncan had said. Angelo's condition and his very nature aroused questions of whether his kind was fit for wizarding society. She knew how her mother would respond, but she was uncertain of what she thought. Angelo was indeed being productive in his own way. Was it not his right to be a functioning member of the society that he was born into? Even if he was unable to wave a wand to groom the owls himself, he had been doing a very respectable job without magic. Regardless of the larger question, she still considered him to be a creepy guy whether he was a squib or not, and she decided to leave it at that.

When Melissa entered the newsroom, she walked to her desk to find her mother in her chair. Rita Skeeter had her back turned to the door and her feet were crossed atop the desk as if to lay claim to her daughter's territory. Beaty was standing next to Rita, and tapped her on the shoulder when Melissa entered. Rita Skeeter lowered her legs and turned to face her daughter. Her face was hardened with chagrin and gave Melissa a mother's stare that felt cold enough to freeze over half of Northern England.

"Mother, Beaty," Melissa said, "what are the two of you doing at my desk?"

"What is this?" Rita said. She held up the envelope that contained her article on the Auror screening. It was obvious that Rita knew what was inside of the envelope, but she wanted Melissa to admit to it.

"Mother, what are you doing with that?" Melissa asked. She tried to snatch it out of her mother's hand, but Rita was quicker, and held the envelope just out of her daughter's reach. "Give that back!"

Rita's mouth gaped open at Melissa's impudence toward her authority. "You do not command me," Rita said with a scowl, "or did you forget that I am still your mother. Just because you're of age now doesn't give you the right. "

"I'm sorry mother," Melissa said. "I didn't mean—"

"—Disrespect!" Her mother cut her off, shouting for the whole newsroom to hear. Many of the other reporters turned to look, disturbed. Melissa felt her cheeks growing inflamed as her co-workers stared at the scene. She tried to stutter a response, but she found herself unable. Rita's eyes were boring tunnels through Melissa's skull, cutting off the connection to her vocal chords and motor functions. "You didn't mean any disrespect? What the hell do you call ordering me around? Now, tell me what is in this envelope, now."

"I think that it might be best if we moved this conversation into my office," Beaty said, glancing around at the disruption that Rita had caused. He extended his hand to help Rita out of the chair. With that break in Rita's tirade, Melissa was able to breathe. The nausea came soon after and burnt a line into her esophagus. Melissa thought that she saw Tweedle grinning from across the room as if to say 'I told you so', but she paid him no mind.

Beaty led Melissa and her mother into his office and shut the door, locking it. He lowered blinds over the windows looking out into the newsroom and sat down behind his desk.

"Melissa," Beaty said, "I read your article on Ministry screening. I thought it was probably the best work that you'd turned in to date. The prose was close to flawless and your style has much improved since you began. I wish that you would turn in work this detailed and precise on a daily basis. If you were able to do that, you might even have your mother's job ten years down the line. It saddens me; however, that such great writing showed through in this unpublishable piece, of all things."

"Unpublishable," Melissa said, with the p's and b's of the word sputtering through her lips. She echoed the word, as a schoolgirl would repeat a spell to her teacher, discovering its usage and meaning as she formed the syllables in her mouth.

"Yes, Melissa," Beaty responded. He folded his hands on the desk and looked into Melissa's eyes, trying to get her to understand. She refused and instead evaded him, looking to the floor. "It is unpublishable. We talked about this two days ago and I thought I had made it clear that we weren't going to run your story."

Rita began to add something, but Beaty held his hand up, calling of his attack dog.

"I guess that I had hoped, sir," Melissa said, choosing each word with care, "that you would read it, consider the facts and rethink your decision."

"You thought wrong," Rita said, and Beaty moved to silence her again.

"Rita, I appreciate it, but leave this between Melissa and me for now," Beaty said. "Melissa. I could fire you just for writing this piece. Did you know that?"

Melissa shook her head Beaty continued. "Not only have you written this story against my will and the paper's will, but disclosing information on Ministry procedures is treason. That's a serious offense, Melissa, and they would send you to Azkaban. You work at the environment desk, so I know that you've read the piece we published recently on the dementors. They are not something that you want to experience, let me assure you. That is of course if we were to turn you over to them. I'm more than willing to keep this an internal matter. As for your employment, that is a different story."

"Are you going to fire me?" Melissa asked. Beaty thought for a moment as if considering the situation in his head, which only made Melissa more apprehensive. If she was fired, she had nothing. Her grades guaranteed that she would never find a job at the Ministry, or anywhere else worth working. She pictured herself getting a job at Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley where she would be restocking the shelves for the rest of her adult life. She would die an old maid, without any accomplishment of note and no one would care. If she had put more effort into her studies, and maybe tried a little harder she could have been someone. She wished that she would have at least been someone; not herself, but she would not have been no one.

"Your mother would fully support me if I decided to let you go, Melissa," Beaty said, "but I am not going to fire you. I'm willing to give you another chance. I want your writing talent put to work with quill and parchment, but you will need to learn to respect the way that we do business around here."

"What do you mean by 'the way we do business?'"

"For starters," Rita Skeeter said, "you must learn to follow the chain of command here. Beaty assigns your articles and you write what he tells you to write. There will be no questions asked, is that understood?"

"Yes mother," Melissa said and continued to stare down at her knees. She thought that if she were to look her mother in the eyes at that moment she would turn into stone and perish, so she looked downward instead.

"You will also write as instructed, use proper formatting and submit your work on time," her mother said. Melissa nodded in acceptance of her terms of employment. "What would you like her to start on first, Beaty?"

"Well," Beaty said, combing is mind for an assignment, "I suppose that we just got the toxicity reports in for the Hogwarts Express. You could turn that into an article."

Melissa nodded her head. "I can do that," she said. "Is that all?"

"No, there's one last thing," Beaty said. He held the envelope containing Melissa's article in his hand. "If you were to write like this more often, we'd see you promoted to the position of investigative reporter in no time. By the same token, you will never write on subjects like this again." Beaty ripped the envelope in two, and then put the pieces on top of each other and then ripped it again. The sound of the tearing paper sliced a gash clean through her pride and soul. Beaty continued to tear the envelope apart until the parchment was in tiny pieces on his desk. Rita Skeeter left the room, slamming the door behind her; the blinds brushed from side to side for a moment until the room was silent.

"Melissa, you don't have to—" Beaty had intended to clean the mess of the column himself, but Melissa had already started. She gathered all of the pieces into a neat pile and then shoved them into her bag. Before Melissa left, she caught Beaty's eyes and the only emotion that they portrayed was pity, which Melissa neither needed nor wanted. She left Beaty's office, closing the door behind her with a gentle, solemn push.

"That went well," Tweedle said. He was leaning back in his desk chair, and it appeared as though he had been waiting for Melissa to come out.

"Tweedle, I don't have time for this," Melissa said and walked back to her desk to begin on Beaty's next assignment.

"Time?" Tweedle asked. "You have all of the time in the world."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Melissa asked without looking at him. She wondered why he would not leave her alone. She picked up her quill and dipped it in ink, or at least she thought that she did. When she tried to write, no ink came from her quill. Her ink bottle was gone. She always kept it in the exact same place on her desk, but now she could not find it. She sighed and opened her desk drawer, searching for a spare bottle without success.

"Looking for this?" Tweedle said from his desk. Melissa turned to look, and sure enough, he was holding her bottle of ink.

"What did you do that for?"

"To get your attention, and I'm glad it worked." Tweedle strolled over to Melissa's desk and placed the bottle of in where he had found it. "Your mother and Beaty will be discussing your future in the days to come. What they decide could make or break your life, but why put that decision in their hands? I am here to discuss your past, which is now of much greater importance."

"What's the point? Past is past and there's nothing anyone can do to change that."

"Very true, but the past can have important consequences for the future." Tweedle laid his hands on Melissa's shoulders and then began to massage them, sending vibrant chills up her spine. "Did you ever give a second thought as to what the French Minister of Magic had been doing in Paris?"

"No, I did not." Melissa shook her shoulders free from Tweedle's grip and walked towards the bathroom. "Why would I care?"

"If you knew, do you think you would write a story about it?" He followed her to the bathroom.

"No, get away from me," Melissa said. She walked past the bathroom and out of a side door that led onto an empty side road in Diagon Alley. The road was narrow and musty, and thus was not traveled without necessity. She ran toward the back of the Daily Prophet building, checking behind her for Tweedle. He emerged from the side door to the Prophet, slamming it open and glancing around him. He was looking for her. There had been a small nook along the side of the building, not more than a few steps behind her. It would have to do and she ducked inside it to avoid being seen.

"You're telling me that you wouldn't write the story of the century?" Tweedle asked. His voice was calm, not angry or loud, although he might have been restraining himself to avoid drawing unwanted attention. "You would leave the greatest conspiracy of Wizard history untouched for someone else to find?"

Tweedle paced up the side road away from her hiding spot and toward the main road that ran through Diagon Alley. Then he turned and walked back in her direction. She considered running, but then he would catch her. She imagined that he could outrun her for sure, but also he could stun her because no one would be watching. She pulled her wand from her pocket and readied it. She would use her magic to escape if she had to.

Tweedle stopped walking and stood no more than a meter away from her hiding place. "You wouldn't write the story of a life time even if it could win back your mother's love?"

Melissa's heart skipped a beat and then panged back again twice as hard. She knew that her mother wanted her to succeed at the Prophet, even if they disagreed on worthwhile stories and method. Even if they fought a little, Rita Skeeter was still her mother. Melissa had to seize any opportunity that she had to please her. She walked out from the nook in the building with her wand at her side.

"How can you help me?" Melissa asked.

"I get it, Melissa," Tweedle said. "I get why some of your stories are better than others. You want to write about the truth and only the truth. Half-truths are not enough for you. The problem is that no one knows what the truth is these days, or how to find it. I can help you with that."

Melissa was skeptical, but she was willing to hear out his proposal. "How would you do that?"

"I have this," Tweedle said. He reached into his pocket and removed a time turner. Melissa knew in an instant what it was, and she understood what he meant about finding the truth. He smiled like a junk dealer that had just managed to sell a piece of fake jewelry to a famous gallery. She took the time turner from him and examined it. It was identical to the ones that she had seen on display the previous day.

"How did you get this?" Melissa asked. "The Department of Mysteries isn't finished testing them yet. They are not available for rent."

"Let's just say that I have my ways," Tweedle said. He took the time turner back from her and then strapped it onto her wrist. Then he unrolled the sleeves of her shirt, pulling them down over her wrists, concealing the magical trinket. "You might want to keep this one between you and me."

"I think you're probably right about that," Melissa said.

"Good," Tweedle said, "now go find your truth. I presume that you know the way to Paris?"

Melissa nodded, knowing what Tweedle meant for her to do. He walked back inside of the Prophet offices, shutting the door behind him. Melissa pulled back her sleeve and looked at the time turner that he had given her. The watch looked brand new and the gold appeared to be fresh off of the mint. The concept of all of that power on her wrist frightened her, but if she could use it to ingratiate herself with her mother once more while still holding to her principles, any risk would be worth it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 6: Omega Protocol**

The Auror command center was empty for the first time in two years when Voldemort drove them out after taking power. Even after hours, at least one Auror would stay the entire night on guard duty, protecting the endless morass of clues on dark witches and wizards. Today; however, Isgar had called every last Auror into the briefing room and the command center was left derelict.

"I wonder why we're here," Ron said. He was sitting in the very back row of the briefing room next to Harry and Neville. "They never use this room, so something must be up."

Harry had never been into the briefing room before either. The décor was Spartan in nature; the walls were bare, save for a projector screen at the front of the room. Stadium seating took up most of the space, and the only other thing of note was a podium, which Harry presumed was where the Head Auror would speak from.

Isgar entered the briefing room followed by a gaunt witch that looked like she had not eaten in years. Her face was haggard and skin hung down from her cheekbones, dragging against her jaw. With the condition that her body was in, she should not have even been able to stand, but it appeared that she was here to speak. She must have been a very powerful witch indeed; maybe even on par with Voldemort or Dumbledore.

"Who in the world is that?" Harry asked. Neville shrugged and turned to Ron who was also unfamiliar with this new face.

"I don't know, but someone ought to get her something to eat," Ron said. As Isgar approached the podium with the emaciated witch, Harry noticed Professor Epoch slide into the room and stand along the side wall. He would have needed an important reason to be pulled away from his work, unless this meeting and his research were somehow related.

"Your attention please," Isgar said and the room fell silent. "May I present Gretchen Shim, the Director of the Department of Mysteries." A low murmur filled the room as Shim took the podium. It was rumored that aside from the Minister of Magic, no one had seen the Director of the Department of Mysteries for over fifty two years.

"Good day to you all," Shim said, "but as all of you are probably speculating, the fact that I am standing here before you means that today is in actuality a very bad day. I hope that this will be the first and last time that any of you will ever lay eyes me."

"My dad always said that the Director of the Department of Mysteries studied love magic," Ron said in a whisper. "He said that when she took the job, she sectioned off a portion of her department, locked herself in the Room of Love and never came out again."

"No wonder she's so thin," Neville said.

"I have been authorized by the Minister of Magic himself to break my unspeakable vow to inform you what has transpired," Shim said. The room was silent again and for the first time Harry saw that Aurors, like normal people, could experience fear. "Earlier this morning, a time turner was stolen out of our vaults. As you might expect, this is a very serious matter of the utmost importance. The Department of Mysteries has determined the cause of the breach in security, and it has been dealt with. That being said, I have been assured several times that no events past or present are in jeopardy; however, recovering the stolen time turner is a top priority of the Ministry. Therefore, by the power vested in me by my position and rank, I am initiating the Omega Protocol."

The murmuring began again, and Isgar retook the podium to call for order. "Oh my god," Neville said under his breath.

"What? Do you know what the Omega Protocol is?" Harry asked. Neville looked to Ron for understanding, but Ron was as clueless as Harry.

"Didn't either of you read the regulation pamphlet they gave us when they invited us to join?" Neville asked. Harry and Ron shook their heads. "The Omega Protocol is used in emergency situations to allow one branch of the ministry to temporarily commandeer another. What that means, as I can tell that the two of you are clueless, is that all of the Aurors are now members of the Department of Mysteries."

"But what does that mean?" Ron asked, still confused. Neville shrugged, as he did not seem to know either. The three of them turned back toward the front of the room for an explanation, but Shim had vanished.

"Please be silent, Aurors," Isgar said and the room fell quiet once more. "We will be splitting into teams to find the missing time turner. By order of the Department of Mysteries, you are not allowed to discuss this matter with anyone outside of this room. That includes even the Minister of Magic. Am I understood?"

The room murmured in affirmative acknowledgement.

"What do we know about the theft?" one Auror asked.

"Who had access to the Room of Time?" It was another Auror. There were questions coming from Aurors all over the place and the briefing room was in chaos.

"Be quiet!" Isgar said. "Are we Aurors or are we schoolchildren? I will answer all of your questions and we will get to work. But first, will the Aurors Harry Potter, Ronald Weasely and Neville Longbottom please leave the room. This is now officially an eyes-only briefing. You three do not have clearance to be present for further discussions."

Harry felt his cheeks grow red with anger and embarrassment. The other Aurors were silent and tried not to look at the three of them. They seemed ashamed, almost as if they felt that calling out the three newcomers was extreme, but Harry did not want their sympathies, he wanted to help them. He wanted to be an Auror for once, not some secretary.

"Are you mad, sir?" It was Neville who spoke. He stood up from his seat and stared Isgar down for what seemed like minutes, but it was only seconds until the Head Auror regained his composure.

"Are you, Longbottom?" Isgar said. "You cannot presume to challenge my authority in this room, especially not at a time like this. Fall in, Auror, or get out."

"Screw your authority. You're the one that won't let us be Aurors. We can help and we want to!"

"You're out of line. Pack your things and go. You're hereby stripped of rank and dismissed from the Ministry of Magic."

"You need every man to help solve this crime. You need us!"

"Get out, Longbottom!" Isgar pointed to the door. "Or I will have you dragged from this room by your ankles."

Harry noticed some of the other Aurors nodding shaking their heads in disapproval, but no one spoke, or even stood. They were all afraid of what Isgar might do next. Neville walked to the door that led back to the main command center, and Harry and Ron followed. Professor Epoch moved to hold the door for them.

"If you want to help," Professor Epoch said to the three of them, "meet me in my office in one hour." He shut the door behind them.

"Before either of you ask, I'm not going," Neville said, still walking, "They clearly don't need our help, or want it. I don't care if they find the missing time turner or not."

"I think we should go," Harry said. "You should come too Neville. Professor Epoch just said that he wanted our help."

"No," Neville said, "I'm done with this." He walked into the Auror locker room to collect his things. While Harry was sympathetic to the position that Neville was in, he also knew that they would need his help if they were going to search for the missing time turner. He had to stop him.

"Neville wait," Harry said, catching up to him, "this is the first real assignment we're getting and you're going to turn it down?"

"That's right," Neville said. He opened his locker and began to throw his things into a bag. "I am tired of being treated like Hippogriff shit. Isgar doesn't have a drop of respect for any of the Aurors in that room. If he could, he'd strip the whole department and dissolve it into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The only reason he doesn't is because he'd be out of a job if he did. Both of you know that being an Auror means nothing now. The glory days of Aurors like Mad-Eye Moody and Tonks died with the end of the Order of the Phoenix. Who sits in those cubicles now? Technocrats and flunkies, that's who. I say let them crash and burn with the rest of the corrupted Ministry."

"But we can work to change that Neville," Harry said. "Kingsley said that change will come to the Ministry soon. The least we can do is stay here and help him."

"You've seen the Prophet articles, I'm sure," Neville said, "They praise the old Ministry blowhards and attack the Minister's reform agenda at every turn. His hands are tied, Harry. This time turner scandal is a symptom of something bigger, and this Omega Protocol business reeks of something shady. You're so bogged down in the greatness of the old days that you can't see what's happened since then. You can't see that one man, or even three, will never make a difference."

"Come on, Neville," Ron said, "do it for us. Just this once and if you still want to leave after that, you can."

"I've made my decision," Neville said as he stormed out of the locker room. "Neither of you can change my mind about this."

Harry began to chase after him, but Ron stopped him, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Let him go, mate," Ron said. "If he doesn't want to help us, you can't force him to. He's got his life to sort out after all. Like he told us before, he didn't want to be doing this stuff for very long anyway."

"He also said the reason he did this stuff before because he wanted to help his friends," Harry said. In a way, things were easier when they were fighting Voldemort. At least everyone had a common cause to unite around. Neville was right. Now that the Order of the Phoenix had been disbanded and most of its senior members were dead, everyone had separated and gone. Hermione was still at Hogwarts finishing an eighth year for a second set of N.E.W.T.'s with a focus on the care of magical creatures, and the other members of Dumbledore's army were off leading their own lives. He felt adrift, as though he had no one to count on like he had at Hogwarts. That was life though, and he had to live it. If Neville did not want to be a part of it, that was his choice.

Harry and Ron waited for Professor Epoch in his office for the better part of three hours. After exhausting themselves trying to understand anything at all on Epoch's whiteboards, they had resigned themselves to a less academic form of entertainment.

"Knight to B6," Ron said. His piece obeyed his command, moving across the battle worn field. They had found a wizard chess board wedged between several large texts on physics and mathematics, many of which had listed the professor as a contributing author. The board was painted in silver and blue like the professor's robes and many of the pieces resembled famous figures from different time periods.

"Are you sure about that, Ron?" Harry asked. Ron had put his knight in a precarious position where it could be destroyed by two of Harry's less valuable pieces.

Ron smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Sacrifices must be made in battle to win the war," Ron said. Harry re-examined the board finding that moving to attack the knight would make several of his most critical pieces vulnerable.

"Pawn to G6," Harry said after considering his moves.

"Knight to D5," Ron said. "That's check." Harry cursed under his breath. He should have seen that coming.

"Bishop to D5, Harry," a voice said from behind Harry. It was Professor Epoch. They were startled and baffled to find him sitting in a chair on the side of the room. He was engrossed the game, and had likely been watching their every move. Neither of them had heard or seen him enter.

"But how did you get there?" Ron asked. His face was contorted in priceless confusion as the logic failed to add up in his brain.

"Someone with one of these need rarely be late for anything," Epoch said, pointing to the time turner on his wrist. "Bishop to D5, Harry. You'll force him to take your bishop, and then you'll have him at checkmate in three turns."

"But sir, you're three hours late," Harry said, "and how did we not hear you time travel in. When I went back in time it made a big pop and sent me through a crazy wormhole or something."

"Yes, well, I was here on time, but you two seemed so enraptured by my chess board. I didn't want to disturb you, so I left to give you a little bit more time to play," Epoch said, "As for your question Harry, the pop and the wormhole might seem like a big deal to you, but they are only audible and can only be sense by people using the time turner. Remember, everything is relative. But now we must get down to business. Bishop to D5."

Harry examined the board, and took Ron's knight as Epoch suggested. The professor was right, and Harry would indeed win the game in three turns. No matter what Ron did it would be inevitable. Ron saw it too and knocked down his king in frustration. "_Reparo_," Ron said, waving his wand to mend the broken chess pieces. Splinters of ceramic flew across the room, converging back into their original forms in their starting positions on the board.

"By the way," Epoch said, "where's the third stooge?"

"Stooge sir?" Harry asked. He did not understand the reference.

"The larger boy," Epoch said. His hand rested in the form of a fist under his chin as if he was trying to emulate 'The Thinker'. Then as if he had a revelation, he stabbed his finger in Harry's direction. "Longbottom! Wasn't that his name?"

"Neville, yes," Harry said, still disappointed. "Neville decided not to join us."

"No bother. We'll make do with just the three of you."

"Three, sir?" Harry asked. There was no third person, just he and Ron.

"They had me talking at that Auror meeting for seven hours," Epoch said. Harry could not tell if Epoch was dodging his question, or if he was rambling because he felt like it. "They had so many questions, and all of the Aurors kept asking me the same things over and over again. It was a mess. Your Head Auror Isgar was the worst. All of them were utterly stupid when it came to time traveling. I knew that there was no way that I was going to come back in time to meet you, so I had to come by unconventional means." He flicked his eyebrows twice in a quirky manner and smiled. Epoch was the splitting image of a mad scientist with his frazzled hair, abnormal robes and odd mannerisms.

"So why exactly are we here, Professor?" Harry asked, still unsure of the answer.

"The Aurors have never dealt with time travel before," Epoch said, "and as they made plain to me, very few of them have any concept of what traveling through time even means. They say you can't teach old dogs new tricks, but even the younger Aurors were acting like they were ninety years old. Harry, you've done this before, which I think makes you the ideal choice for this mission. Your boss can say whatever he wants, but you at least already understand the basics more than his lackeys."

"Well thank you," Ron said. "I'm glad someone appreciates my talent."

"Ron, you were asleep in the infirmary when Hermione and I went back in time," Harry said to set the facts straight.

"That may be, Harry, but all it takes is one or two people who know what they're doing," Epoch said. "I'm sure Ron won't screw things up too much, and you'll be there to explain it to him along the way."

"Thanks," Ron said, "I guess."

"There it is again, Professor," Harry said, confused by Epoch's choice of words. "You said one or two people who know what they're doing. Who would the second person be?"

Epoch checked his time turner and then turned back to the Aurors, smiling like a schoolgirl with a secret. Harry had not realized until then that the time turners would conveniently double as watches. He imagined that was one of the newer improvements, and a genius one at that. What good would it be to go back in time but not be able to determine what time it was?

The professor rolled his shoulders and straightened himself as if he were about to give some pompous speech. "May I present to you, gentlemen," Epoch said and stretched his hand out beside him. Whatever it was that he meant to present was not there, and his hand displayed only air. He grunted and checked his watch again. "Well that's funny. She should have been here by—" He was startled as a wormhole opened right beside him, producing a person. It was a witch from the looks of it. Her long, brown hair was frazzled and covered up her face, which Harry assumed it was a result of the turbulence of the vortex. Then he noticed that she was wearing a Hogwarts uniform. This witch was from the House of Gryffindor.

"Professor!" the witch said. Her annoyed tone sounded none too familiar and Harry and Ron both knew in an instant who was standing in front of them. "That temporal vortex is incredibly unstable. I felt like I was in an earthquake!" She brushed her hair aside and confirmed Harry's suspicion that the witch standing in front of them was indeed Hermione Granger.

"Hermione!" Ron said. He ran to her and embraced her in a prolonged, drawn out hug. His hands gripped around her back almost as if to prove that she was real, and Harry could tell how much he had missed her. "What in the world are you doing here? I thought you were at school."

"Professor Epoch will come to Hogwarts two days from now and request that I intern with him," Hermione said. "A day later, Professor McGonagall will approve it, given that I've already graduated once and my performance is more than adequate in the majority of my classes. She will make me promise to return for midterms and N.E.W.T.s, but otherwise I'll be finishing out my education in this internship."

"Excellent use of the future tense, Ms. Granger," Epoch said and he winked to her in approval.

"Hold on," Harry said, "These time turners can take you back several days?"

"Yes, their temporal range has been expanded from the previous versions," Epoch said, "You can go as far back in time as fifteen days. That is, assuming that your hand doesn't get tired of twisting the hands back that far."

"Let me guess," Harry said. "You're working on that problem too."

"That's wicked cool!" Ron said. His eyes goggled like a boy who had just opened his presents on Christmas morning.

"Anyway, we must get down to business," Epoch said. "Time is of the essence."

"So what exactly is our plan for finding this time turner thief?" Hermione asked.

"It's simple," Epoch said. He grabbed a chalkboard eraser and expunged the notes from one of his boards. When he was done, he stood thinking for a moment and then grunted. "I probably should have erased the other board. No worries though." He grabbed a piece of chalk and began to scrawl a new diagram on the board. It looked a lot like the tree that he maintained on one of the other walls, but this diagram was simpler and cleaner.

"What is that, Professor?" Ron asked.

"This is a representation of the timeline," Epoch said. "It seems plainly obvious to me that whoever stole the time turner intends to use it to travel through time. There are ways to detect temporal signatures created by the wormholes that we use to time travel. They leave behind ripples in the space time continuum and that's how the Aurors plan to find this man. It is also more than obvious to me that by the time they locate one of these ripples, the perpetrator will be long gone. Once they discover three or four ripples, they might be able to extrapolate common locations, or discover where he plans to go next, but that method will take time; time which the present does not have. That method also assumes that the perpetrator also intends to make multiple trips back in time, which if that is not the case, they'll never find him. I think that if we're going to find this person, we're going to have to look through time itself."

"I like this plan already," Ron said.

Professor Epoch smirked in disdain and then continued his explanation. "This diagram will catalogue your journey as you make it. It's sort of a temporal map, and once we figure out what the thief is doing across the timeline, this tree will grow and expand to look like that one on my other wall. Eventually, we'll have enough evidence of the past to find and arrest this person in the present. Does that make sense to you three?"

"If we go back in time, find the perpetrator and catch him in the act, won't that be it?" Hermione asked. "Wouldn't we already know who it is and then couldn't we just come back to the future and arrest him or her."

"That's not the way time works; you need to be thinking fourth dimensionally," Epoch said, "Because we do not know now who the perpetrator is in the present, the universe will course correct itself and we will never see the perpetrator in the first place. We can however gather information about the past. We will know where the perpetrator has been and once we know where he or she is going, we can try and figure out why they went there. That's how we're going to find a motive."

"Where do we start then?" Harry asked. Professor Epoch cracked a sly smile and pointed to one of the chalkboard walls. He waved his wand in the air and a small portion of the wall opened up like a door. Harry, Ron and Hermione exited the room and found themselves in the room of time. The hidden door into Epoch's office was concealed in the base of the massive, golden tree of time.

"I'm never going to understand the layout of the Department of Mysteries, am I?" Ron asked in amazement. Epoch chuckled in subtle understanding and sympathy.

"This is where we start," Epoch said. "The ministry knows that this is where the theft occurred, but they consider this place insignificant because they've already searched for clues and corrected the security issue. You, on the other hand, have the opportunity to go back in time and see the theft occur."

"Professor, will Hermione be able to come with us?" Ron asked. "She's already back in time after all, which is our present, but her past I suppose. Can she even go further back in time with us?"

"As long as it does not exceed fifteen days, the answer is yes, Ron," Epoch said. He moved the three of them to the center of the room. By my calculations, the theft occurred at approximately five-thirty in the morning this day. Go back in time and wait for something to happen."

"What if we're seen?" Ron asked.

"If Professor Epoch's theories are correct, we won't be," Hermione said. "Because no one in the present has any recollection of seeing us in the past, no one will see us."

"Correct, Ms. Granger," Professor Epoch said. "Now, off you go. Time's wasting. You only have two time turners between the three of you, so Ron; you're going to have to grab hold of someone to go back with them. When you wish to return to the present, simply push the hourglass into the clockface and you'll end up back in this time. Remember though that you'll still be in exactly the same place you are when you come back though, so make sure to find a closet or something where no one will see you."

The three of them nodded their heads and prepared to go back in time. Ron grabbed hold of Hermione as she and Harry adjusted their clock faces for the time shift. They braced themselves for the vicious wormholes and prayed that nothing would go wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 7: Flight**

Melissa stood on the edge of the precipice of the Western Dover Heights overlooking the valley of the River Dour and the English Channel. A fresh breeze blew across her face from the sea and smelled of fresh salt and cod; a soothing aroma for the senses. Below her, the town of Dover was busy and bustling with Muggles milling about their daily lives. Vast arrays of ships were pulling in and out of the port at a constant pace like homeless people in line for food at a shelter. They waited in long lines to pass through the Channel at its narrowest point and many avoided collision with the other boats crammed into the passage by mere seaman's luck. She could see the Muggle men and women traipsing around below her as if they owned the world, but they knew nothing of the magic that surrounded them.

They were blind to the daily commute of witches and wizards across the channel by broomstick. They were unaware of the sea creatures beneath the waves; the giant squids and mermen that would pillage and plunder the passing ships without a second thought, were it not for the Ministry's magical containment policies. Then there were the streams of owls flying overhead carrying all manner of letters and parcels from London to Paris and back again. They crossed the sky in chains, riding the strong air currents miles above the ground. Melissa closed her eyes and imagined a world without magic. How different that scenery would have been. Desolate and broken barges and cracks and splinters of wood lined the water. The town was ablaze as warring parties of prehistoric men pillaged the area, taking all that they could find. Then it was over in an instant and she stared out over the clear blue waters of the Channel and sighed with tranquil repose. Here, she could be at peace with the world.

As she stood by the Channel, she thought back to her time at Beauxbatons. The school was an ugly mess of French pomp and flair, but the unaltered forests around the man-made monstrosity provided were another sanctuary where she could be calm and at peace with nature. At night when she should have been resting for morning classes, Melissa would sneak out of the school into those lush and wild forests to write poetry; lines and stanzas that permeated the every corner of the mind, like the deep roots of the trees spread out beneath the ground. There she began to observe the local owls in their natural habitat. There was a silent majesty about the birds that she studied. The more they saw, the less they spoke, and the less they spoke, the more that they heard. They were wise and devious creatures capable of hearing a squirrel snore from several trees away. Watching an owl hunt lit her imagination brighter than the moon shining down on her. Soon she took to the library, exhausting its collection of literature on owls. She secretly became an expert on everything from owl anatomy and physiology to their use in wizarding society. The majority of her schooling no longer mattered. She longed to be quick and clever like the owls that she watched, and it was in the dead of night that she taught herself just that, only to sleep through class the following morning. It did not matter though, because she believed that she had learned the only magic that was worth knowing.

Melissa tightened the camera bag around her waist, securing it for her flight to Paris. Then she removed her wand from her pocket and aimed it skyward. She summoned forth bright lights from the heavens above to surround and engulf her. Her limbs began to shrink and morph while she allowed her spirit to soar. The feeling of being unshackled from her human form was liberating, and she burst forth from the white light as a snowy owl.

She ascended upward, further and further until she was Icarus, flying under the warm and soothing rays of the autumn sun. The feeling of the rushing breeze splitting over her feathers was like a blissful dream. She relieved her wings to the currents and drifted allowing the ebb and flow of the winds. It was a long flight across the Channel to Normandy and later, Paris, but she felt like having a little bit of fun first. Below her, she spotted a small group of kids on the outskirts of Dover. They were playing a game of quidditch, but she saw that the sides were unevenly matched. One team was made up of a boy and a girl who had a natural talent for the game against three younger kids that were barely able to stay on their brooms. Melissa dove downward through the sky, rushing to the ground faster than a shooting star. She swooped into the game and grabbed the quaffle by her talons. The older children cried foul and attempted to chase after her as she flew through middle of their left-side goalpost. They followed her into the sky as she climbed, but each time they inched close to her, she took a nosedive, evading them. She flew back to the site of the quidditch game and dropped the quaffle into the hands of one of the younger children. He took the opportunity to score, but by the time he had turned to thank the helpful owl, Melissa was already speeding away across the Channel, growing smaller under the clouds.

She arrived at Cap Blanc Nez on the French end of the Channel, flapping her wings as she landed, stirring up a whirlwind of chalk dust. Her camera bag hung from her rounded owl waist like a pair of loose pants. From there, she flew onto the deck of a Muggle ship docked at the Port of Calais. There, she returned to human form and disembarked into the city, making her way to the train station.

Unlike the witches and wizards of England, the wizarding communities of other European nations were much more accustomed to using Muggle trains, because they were faster than broomsticks, portkeys were often inconvenient, floo powder was not as popular as it was in England, and short-range apparation was not an option due to the distances that some wizards needed to travel, and the fact that apparition across international borders was illegal. Melissa had learned to navigate the French rail system during her sixth year at Beauxbatons. She told her mother that she was planning to spend the winter holiday with a friend, but instead she hopped on a train and explored the countryside.

When she arrived at the Calais station, she learned that it would be another half hour until the train left for Paris, so she decided to pop into a small café by the platform. She seated herself at a table by the window and a waitress arrived to serve her.

"Je voudrais un verre d'eau gazeuse," Melissa said. The waitress nodded and disappeared to fetch her beverage. Melissa looked out the window at the passing Muggles. They were always rushing somewhere, whether it was to a train, to the ticketing counter or to the bathroom. Life in the Muggle world never seemed to stop and Muggles never bothered to smell the roses by the wayside. Perhaps that was why they had no problem destroying the natural habitat around them and replacing it with their massive steel towers that cast long shadows over their society.

"Hello, Rita!" a high pitched, but male voice said from behind her. She was startled and turned around to find Xenophilius Lovegood, the Quibbler's publisher and editor, standing before her. "Oh, well you're not Rita Skeeter are you?"

Melissa shook her head. "No I'm her daughter actually," she said.

"Well, it's quite a pleasure to meet you," Mr. Lovegood said. He smiled and sat across from her. His lime green robes were a dramatic contrast to the rest of the grays and blacks around them. A pair of Muggle businessmen sitting at another table had been staring at him with their mouths gaped open and Melissa could not help but wonder what they thought about Mr. Lovegood's attire. "I had heard a rumor that Rita had a daughter with her deceased husband. Apparently she'd tried to keep the whole thing on the hush-hush and hid you away at some school in France where no one at Hogwarts could get their hands on you. Is that about right?"

No one had ever given an explanation for her schooling at Beauxbatons quite like that one. Her mother had told her that it was because it was a better school than Hogwarts, which Melissa still believed to be true. Mr. Lovegood's Quibbler was also known for publishing wild gossip, so she imagined that there was not much truth to this rumor either.

"Is that what you've heard, Mr. Lovegood?" Melissa said.

"I only hear that which speaks to my heart," Mr. Lovegood responded. Melissa let loose an impressed smile. She had not expected such class from the editor of a gossip tabloid.

"You're quoting Jean Rivard, the famous poet," Melissa said.

"You know of him then?" Mr. Lovegood said. "We are in France of course, and I just happened to think that the line fit the situation."

"I speak without rhyme or purpose, yet they say my words pay homage to the winds. Fools they are, for I speak only for me. Leave the winds to the avian beasts," Melissa said.

"Very good Ms. Skeeter," Mr. Lovegood said. "You wouldn't happen to write any poetry of your own. Do you?"

"I dabble, yes," Melissa said. Mr. Lovegood eased himself closer to her, and she sensed that she'd piqued his interest.

"Perhaps you'd consider sending a submission for the Quibler's annual literary contest. It comes out for Christmas, and we feature three pieces of poetry and two short stories. It's a great way for young authors to get recognition." The idea was appealing to Melissa, but she was uneasy about having her work shown in a tabloid, of all places. But her urge to publish was like a juggernaut on the plains, and it overrode her better judgment. Besides, Mr. Lovegood seemed cultured enough for his contest to be legitimate.

"I don't know. I doubt my mother would approve."

"She wouldn't have to. Send it anonymously." That seemed to be a reasonable compromise to Melissa. "Anyway, I hate to keep you longer, as I'm sure that you have a train to catch." Melissa nodded and finished her drink and left some Muggle money on the table for the tip.

Mr. Lovegood stood to leave. "It was refreshing to have met you Ms. Skeeter," he said.

"Refreshing, sir?" Melissa was puzzled by his choice of words.

"Yes," Mr. Lovegood said, "it's nice to meet a young woman with taste these days." Melissa smiled, but was unsure if she should be flattered or not. He had given her a compliment after all, but the things that he considered to be in good taste were in conflict. On one hand he knew his literature, but on the other, he dressed like a pear. That sort of taste might not be something that she wanted to associate with. His poetry contest was of interest to her though, and she decided that she would send a submission.

When Melissa made it onto the platform, she walked past the train and snuck outside through an emergency exit into the train yard. There, she waited by the tracks for her train to start leaving the station. Instead of purchasing an expensive ticket, she preferred to ride the train perched on the roof in her animagus form. No one would know she did not pay if they were unaware that she was really a person.

The sun had set by the time the Calais line pulled into the Paris Terminal. When the passengers disembarked, she morphed back into human form and left with them. The Paris train station was a massive maze of terminals with multiple platforms that directed trains all over France and Europe. She checked a schedule to determine what platform the train from Berlin normally arrived on and headed in that direction. On the way, she saw a small maintenance room off to the side of the main hallway. It looked unimportant and she assumed that the number of people going in and out would be infrequent; it was the perfect place to go back in time. She entered the maintenance room, and crawled into the corner furthest from the door and played with her time turner. She turned back the hour hand almost two weeks so that she would end up in the station at the same time as Gerard. She pushed the face of the hourglass into the frame and felt the wind begin to whirl around her.

Melissa re-appeared in the maintenance closet and to her amazement, she was unharmed. She slipped out into the terminal and ran for the platform. If the train schedules were accurate, she had a thirty minute window to find Minister Gerard and determine why he had stopped in Paris. She knew she was in the past, but she never would have guessed it. The scenery in the terminal was identical to that which she had left behind in the future. She presumed that was a good thing though, and probably meant that she was still in her timeline.

Tweedle had taught her how to use the time turner, but had neglected to explain the mechanics of time travel, so she just assumed what she had heard about the previous set of time turners was still accurate. The general rule was that the user should interfere in past events as little as possible to avoid skewing the timeline into some desolate oblivion. At least, that's what she had heard. The people around her did not seem to notice her and that gave her confidence that she was doing everything right.

The Berlin train had not yet arrived when she came onto the platform, so she sat down on a bench and waited for it. It never came. She checked her time turner to double check that she was in the right time period, and she was. The train must have been delayed that day. Each passing moment caused her to grow more apprehensive. The train to Toulouse was supposed to leave in twenty minutes and the Berlin train was nowhere in sight. Minister Gerard was able to board his connecting train, so she knew the Berlin line must have arrived at some point during that thirty minute window. She grew tired of waiting and walked to one of the Muggle station attendants.

"Quand le train venu de Berlin?" she asked the attendant about the train. "At-elle été retardée?"

The Muggle woman checked the electronic device in front of her. "Je suis désolé, madame," the attendant said. "Le train de Berlin a été détourné vers l'autre plate-forme"

The train from Berlin had been moved to another terminal. Melissa thanked the Muggle attendant and began to sprint toward the other end of the station. She hoped that the Minister would be easy to spot in the crowd. He was tall enough to stand out, but she might have been too late to catch him at all.

She made it to the Berlin train and found that it had already been emptied of passengers. The windows were bare and the lights were dark. She had missed him.

"Wait," she said to herself and stopped dead in her tracks. Eureka was flying through her brain as she looked down at her wrist. It was impossible for her to be late when she had a time turner. She waited until no one was looking and then she jumped onto the rails and hid between the train cars. Her wand served as a silent way to break into the first class train car, and once the door was unlocked, she crept inside. As she walked through the car, she kept her head low so that no one on the platform would notice her inside of it. She found a bathroom at the front of the compartment and locked herself inside. Once more, she twisted back the hands on the time turner and pressed the hourglass into the clock face.

She found herself standing in the bathroom with her face inches away from the back of a Muggle. It took every ounce of self-control she had to keep from shrieking in surprise and she smothered her mouth with her hand for good measure. The Muggle finished drying his hands and then he left, closing the door behind him. Melissa uncovered her mouth and let loose a silent scream. She had gotten lucky that time, but she would have to be more careful in the future. A voice came over the loud speaker and announced that the train had just pulled into the station. Then it told passengers to prepare to disembark. Melissa waited until the train stopped to open the bathroom door. The first class car was full of Muggles in rich suits and fancy dresses, but she spotted Gerard towards the back, sitting with one of his foreign ministers. She waited at the front of the car for everyone to leave, and then followed Gerard onto the platform.

The French Minister saw his colleague off at the security gate and walked toward the Toulouse platform. Melissa stayed close behind him, not more than ten strides at any given point until the Minister stopped off at the restroom. While she waited for him to finish his business, she pulled her camera from her bag and checked to make sure that everything was working properly. When the Minister emerged, he walked to a table at a small station café and sat down. He glanced around the terminal as if he were waiting for someone to meet him. When that someone came, Melissa was awestruck to find out who it was.

Anya Amoroso, the American Secretary of Magic, sat across from Gerard at the table and the two of them began to talk. The American was a stern looking woman with crew cut hair and \ a well postured figure. Compared to Gerard's regality, she was a simple peasant, but the Americans liked to be led by the 'average man', and she fit the role well. Melissa assumed that the American Secretary had been at the conference of wizarding nations, and the two of them must have had something secret to talk about for them to have met in a Muggle train station. It was an ideal location after all. It was a public place where very few wizards would be, and no Muggle would have any clue what they were talking about, or even who they were. It would look as though they were two average people sitting down for coffee together. Melissa turned the flash off of her camera and began to take snapshots of the two of them together. She could not hear what they were saying from where she was, so once she had taken the pictures that she needed, she walked into the café and picked up a newspaper, standing near to the Minister's table.

"—there is no way, Anya," Gerard was saying. He sounded almost as desperate and flustered now as he had at the end of Melissa's interview with him. "I will not condone this course of action."

"I'm afraid that you have no choice, Gerard," Secretary Amoroso said. "The other wizarding nations have fallen in line, and even Spain has agreed. You're the last hold out." Amoroso held a superior bargaining position, and her tone reflected her confidence. Melissa took her quick quotes quill from her bag and sucked twice on the tip and let it run across the newspaper.

"It is not right," Gerard said, "You know that I am always one to support your positions, but this time I cannot. I cannot follow you on this one. I refuse."

"Let's be honest with ourselves. You don't have a choice," Amoroso said. She gathered her things and she stood to leave. "I expect your answer by the summit in two weeks. And know that if you are the lone holdout, you will be condemned by the rest of the wizarding world. The resolution will pass, I'm sure." She left, breezing through the terminal trailing a wake of power and superiority behind her. Gerard sighed and left to wait for his train. Melissa had not heard much of their conversation, but she had enough to bust the story open with a sledgehammer. It seemed that France was the lone holdout on a deal at the wizarding summit, and once she broke the story that the French minister would not play ball with the others, they would have to cave. The meetings that took place during the summit were a secret to the general public, but reaching a conclusion would be vital for the security of the wizarding world. Should the summit collapse, the trust between the nations would vanish and they would be at each other's throats. Melissa felt as if it was her duty to write the story. If she could influence international events with the stroke of the pen and prevent a clash of wands, it would be the journalistic achievement of her life time and she would feel as if she had served a real purpose to the world.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 8: The Mysterious Chase**

Harry emerged from the time vortex followed by Ron and Hermione. They were in the Room of Time, but Epoch was gone and their time turners confirmed that they had successfully made the time jump.

"Bloody hell," Ron said. He held onto Hermione as if he was going to get sucked back into the future. Harry sniggered at the scene as Hermione tried to shove her boyfriend off of her.

"My time turner says it's five in the morning," Hermione said. "We made it back to the right time."

"Well that's a relief," Harry said. "No on saw us before, so according to Professor Epoch, no one will see us this time. But we still need the time turner to be stolen though to understand future events. How do we do that?" Harry and Ron turned to Hermione.

"Why do the two of you always look at me in times like this?" Hermione said.

"Because you always know everything, of course," Ron said, to which Hermione rolled her eyes with contempt.

"The desk with the bell jar," Hermione said, "We can move it out from the wall a little and hide behind that." The three of them walked over to the desk. Hermione stopped and looked at the two men and motioned for them to move the desk

"Why do you always look at us in times like this?" Ron asked. Hermione stamped her foot into the ground and Ron sprang into action, pushing the desk out from the corner. Harry helped him pivot it so that they could all fit behind it. As they were finishing, Harry heard a large thump outside of the room.

"Quickly," Harry said, "hide." They ducked under the desk as an explosion rocked the room and a large metal hunk flew across the room, landing mere meters from their hiding place. Harry stared out from a crack underneath the desk and saw the thief enter the room. He was dressed in flowing black robes and was wearing a mask that covered his face. A vine of devil's snare was attached to his leg, fighting to pull him away. He kicked the vine to the floor and walked to the time turner display. There, he took just one of the time turners and slapped it onto his wrist. He turned to leave, but stopped for a moment and stared in Harry's direction.

Harry jerked his head up from the floor and huddled against the wall with his friends. He was unsure if the thief had seen him, so he readied his wand. The thief began moving and the sounds of his footsteps grew further away. Harry lifted his head to find the thief staring directly at him with his wand at the ready. The bell jar desk behind began to float into the air, revealing the three of them huddled behind it.

"It's coming back down!" Harry said. Ron grabbed Hermione by the shoulder and shoved her out of the way as the desk came crashing down to the floor. The bell jar shattered into tiny shards of glass and thousands of balls of white light spilled out onto the floor.

"_Expelliarmus_," Harry said, but the thief was quicker, raising a protective barrier to block the attack.

"_Stupefy_," Ron said, flinging his spell at the thief, but he blocked it as well. "How can he see us, Hermione? I thought the professor said that he wouldn't be able to see us."

"I don't know," Hermione said. "Something's not right here."

The thief raised his wand and then swung it down at the ground. A huge shockwave erupted from the floor and spread across the room. The force of the wind was stronger and faster than a hurricane and the sheer magnitude of the wave was enough to shatter the glass on every clock face in the room. The gust knocked Harry and Ron to the ground, and shards of glass smashed into the floor around them like droplets of hail. The thief ran from the room, and Hermione pursued him alone.

"Hermione," Ron said, jumping from the floor and running after her. Harry followed them through the next room, careful to step over the remnants of a mutilated devil's snare that were scattered across the floor. The thief and Hermione disappeared behind a door, which closed on its own before Ron and Harry could reach it.

"They went through here," said Ron. He opened the door to find that it opened into a massive chasm. There was a river of lava flowing below them, but no sign of Hermione, the thief, or their remains. Ron shut the door and turned to Harry, dumbfounded.

"The rooms must have shifted when the door closed," Harry said. "Come on, we have to find them."

Harry and Ron backtracked through the Room of Time and into the Hall of Prophecy. Harry knew that those rooms were always connected, and it would be easier to find their way from there.

"The door at the end of this hall should lead back to the entrance chamber at the beginning of the department," Harry said as they ran past the shimmering orbs of prophecy. They reached the door and opened it to find themselves in the middle of a fancy dress dinner party. The room looked like the inside of a high-class pub; the tables were set with white table cloths, and a polished bar at the far side of the room was well stocked with expensive liquors. The space was well lit by magnanimous and inviting bay windows, and the floor was made of a nice granite tile. Against the side wall, there was a live brass band playing a piece that sounded similar to Muggle Jazz.

"Well this isn't the right place," Ron said, turning back to the door that they'd entered from, but when he tried to turn knob, it would not budge. "We're locked in!"

"There's a door on the other side of the room. Let's try that one," Harry said. Before they could make it halfway across the room, the door had vanished from sight. "What happened? Where did the door go?"

"I dunno," Ron said, "But something weird is definitely going on here. I hope Hermione will be all right without us."

"Harry, my boy, join me for a drink," said a familiar voice from the bar. It was Professor Slughorn. He was as corpulent Harry remembered and was wearing one of his favorite waistcoats adorned with golden buttons that strained against the threads that held them every time his weight shifted. Harry and Ron looked at each other with equivalent looks of confusion.

"Sorry," Harry said, "Not now, Professor. We have to find Hermione. She's in danger."

"No worry, young boy," Slughorn said, waving them over to him, "Ms. Granger is a very capable woman and can take care of herself." Harry looked around the room, but found no doors, or any other sort of exit. They were reluctant to sit at the bar with Slughorn, but they saw no alternative. Whatever the purpose of this room was, it looked as though they would have to play along.

"Professor, what are you doing at the Department of Mysteries?" Harry asked.

"Department of Mysteries, Harry? What are you talking about?" Slughorn said. "This is the Hog's Head in Hogsmede Village."

"The Hog's Head. You must be joking, professor," Harry said. He glanced around the place again, doubtful, but there were evident similarities in this pub to the bar in Hogsmeade. For one, the windows and the bar in the right places. He noticed the tables were set in similar positions.

"I'm not joking, Harry," Slughorn said. "This is how the Hog's Head used to look before Albus Dumbledore left management to his brother and sister as he left on his quest for power."

"What happened to the place?" Ron asked. "The Hog's Head looks nothing like this place now."

"As I said, Albus left it to his brother, Aberforth, and sister, Ariana, when he began his quest for power with the wizard Grindelwald," Slughorn said. "After Ariana's death, Aberforth was heartbroken and this pub fell into the disrepair we know today."

"How are we here then?" Harry asked.

"Now you are beginning to ask the right questions, Harry," Slughorn said, "We're not really in the Hog's Head, of course. This is all an illusion, and I am a part of it."

"How do we get out then?" Ron asked. Slughorn shook his head and sighed turning back to his drink.

"Why would you want to leave this place?" Slughorn said. "It's idyllic, quaint and peaceful. You don't need the vast world out there. When people leave places like this behind, others get hurt. You'll find then that you've lost the things dearest to you."

"But sir, if we don't leave now, Hermione will get hurt," Harry said. Slughorn shook his head and finished off the drink in his hand and set the glass back on the bar. A doorway appeared where the entrance of the real Hog's Head should have been.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, "We appreciate it."

"Harry, before you go," Slughorn said, "remember that just because you are a great wizard now does not mean that you should abandon great things that you already have."

"I won't professor, don't worry," Harry said. Slughorn continued to shake his head as Harry and Ron left the room. They found themselves in the entrance chamber of the Department of Mysteries.

"Ron, help me check these other rooms for Hermione and the thief," Harry said. They had eleven doors to search, and each second was another moment that they were separated from Hermione. It did not take them very long to find her though. A door opened at the far end of the entrance hall, and the thief darted out of it, and headed for the exit. Hermione was following close behind.

"Hermione!" Ron said.

"Where in the world were you two?" Hermione asked, still chasing the thief, who was able to catch an elevator. He shouted for it to take him to the lobby. Hermione called another and Harry and Ron sprinted over to her.

"We got caught up in some illusion room," Harry said. "We had a drink with Professor Slughorn."

"Seriously?" Hermione asked. "You two have been lounging about in a bar while I was dodging curses and asteroids all in zero gravity in the space room?"

"Well it was actually a pub, but yes, I suppose so," Harry said. Hermione looked as if she wanted to smack him, but the elevator arrived before she could act, and the three of them took it to the lobby.

By the time they arrived on the ground floor, the thief was halfway to the exit. They chased him out of the side doors that led out onto the streets of Diagon Alley. The sun was just rising and the Alley was empty.

"He went into the Leaky Cauldron," Harry said. They pursued him inside, only to find that the Leaky Cauldron was as bare as the streets. The chairs were flipped over the table tops from the previous night's cleaning and the thief was no where to be found.

"_Homenum revelio_," Hermione said, and found nothing, "We're alone. Are you sure you saw him come in here Harry?"

"Positive," Harry said.

"So what now?" Ron asked. He pulled a chair from one of the tables and sat down to catch his breath. He looked for answers from Harry, who could only shrug, uncertain of their next move.

"_Conperi Ionis_," Hermione said. Her wand pointed to an area in the corner of the room and she went to investigate. "He did it over here?"

"Did what over there?" Harry asked.

"He traveled back in time," Hermione said. "_Engorgio maxima_." She pointed her want into empty space, and minute white particles grew from nothing until they were the size of small marbles, just like the particles that were contained in the bell jar in the room of time.

"What are those, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Those are particles remaining from the time vortex that the thief used to go back in time," Hermione said. "Judging by the number and size of the particles, I would say he's gone back in time by about seven or eight hours. I can't be sure though."

"She's amazing," Ron said, "she knows everything. How does she know everything, Harry?"

"Professor Epoch is going to tell me how to do it in a few days," Hermione said, immersed in the particles, "It's nothing special, and it's not an exact method either. For all I know, I could have estimated wrong and we'll miss him by a few hours."

"Well, an estimate is good enough for me," Harry said, and set his time turner. "Let's be on the safe side and go back in time eight hours. If he's not there, we can wait for him." Hermione nodded in agreement and set her time turner back as well.

"Ron," Hermione said and motioned for him to join her. He hurried over to her and squeezing her from behind. "Ow, Ron! Can you hold my hand without breaking it, please? Nothing bad is going to happen."

He was reluctant to loosen his grip, but he did as she asked. "Okay, let's do this again," he said. Harry and Ron turned back their clocks and entered the time vortexes once more.

They emerged from the wormholes and find themselves in the Leaky Cauldron bar, except that it was much more crowded than it had been in the future at five in the morning. At nine o'clock at night, the Leaky Cauldron would have been just leaving the peak of the dinner rush.

"Where is he?" Harry asked. He looked around the bar, but the crowd was so thick that he could not see anyone that came close to resembling the thief.

"I don't know," Ron said.

"Disaster at tonight's Harpies-Puddlemere Game," a voice said from behind them. "Read all about it!"

"I'll take one," Harry heard the bartender say.

"I've been here before," Harry said. "My past self is at the bar right now sitting with Ginny. We were drinking butterbeers when—" Harry stopped as he thought back on that night.

"You were here before?" Hermione said. "Do you remember seeing him?"

"I think I might," Harry said. He led Ron and Hermione through the mess of tables and patrons. The perpetrator was right in front of them, sitting with his back turned, trying to blend in with the scenery. Harry pressed his wand into the man's back. "Don't move. Come quietly with us to the back of the bar." Harry remembered that the man would break his mug as a distraction to get away, so he shoved the mug out of reach.

The man in front of them tensed up, knowing that he'd been caught. "Fine," he said. He began to stand up, and surrendered his wand. A mug shattered at the table next to them and before Harry knew what had happened, the thief had snatched his wand back and rolled out onto the floor. He broke into a sprint and flew out the door to the cauldron and onto the streets of London. Harry, Ron and Hermione followed, chased by the bartender.

"Stop!" the bartender said, "You'll have to pay for that, you will." They kept running and the bartender pulled out his wand.

"_Expelliarmus_," Ron said, causing the bartender's wand to fly out of his hand. The bartender tried to recover it, but by the time he did, they had disappeared down an alleyway. He cursed and returned to his bar.

The thief darted through an alleyway, flinging spells at dumpsters that he passed, creating an obstacle course of garbage and debris that Harry had to climb over to continue the chase. The side road ended and the thief followed the main road down to the next small side road.

Harry chased him, followed by Hermione and Ron. The thief was waiting for them. He flung a spell into the ground, and the concrete cracked and shifted, causing Ron to lose his balance. Ron fell to the ground and Hermione went to help him up while Harry began to duel the thief. He was a powerful wizard, but Harry was the better duelist. The thief retreated down the street fighting as he went and he ducked into yet another alleyway.

Harry pursued him only to have the plastic lid of a dumpster blown into his face. He collapsed on the ground as the thief ran to the end of the alleyway.

"_Rictusempra_," Hermione said. The spell hit its mark and the thief tumbled to the ground in a laughing fit as Harry rose back to his feet.

"Good shot, Hermione," Ron said as he ran over to the thief. "Let's see who you really are." Ron reached for the thief's mask, but he was unable to pull it off before the thief kicked him away. The thief leapt to his feet and began to run again, turning left out of the alleyway onto a main road. Harry, Ron and Hermione followed close behind, but when they emerged from the alleyway, the thief had vanished.

"Where'd he go?" Harry asked, looking around him for any signs or traces of the thief. The street was deserted, save for two Muggles walking along the other side of the street. Harry checked under the cars parked along the side of the road and around in the crevices and nooks of the walls of the surrounding buildings but found nothing. "Hermione, did he travel back in time again?"

Hermione used her wand to check for time particles, but found nothing. The thief had been able to elude them. "No use staying here much longer," Hermione said. "We should head back to our own times and tell Professor Epoch what happened."

"Not yet," Harry said, "we had him. He's got to be somewhere nearby."

"But we don't know where to start, mate," Ron said. "For all we know he could have turned off onto any one of those side streets over there."

"We've got to try," Harry said. He began to walk down the street, but Hermione grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

"No, Harry," Hermione said. "Ron's right. We've lost him. And based on Professor Epoch's theory of time, even if we found him again, he would get away. Because we don't know who the thief is in our time, we can't find out who he is in the past. It's impossible."

"Fine," Harry said, "you're probably right. Let's go and plan our next move. Next time we do this though, we should bring the cloak of invisibility, so we aren't seen like this again."

"I think that's a good idea, Harry," Hermione said as the three of them returned to the alleyway. They crouched behind a dumpster and prepared to return to the future. Ron held onto Harry while Hermione returned to her time two days ahead of theirs. Harry pressed the small hourglass on the watch face and let the vortex take him. When they returned to their time, they found themselves caught in an afternoon rain shower. Each droplet of water felt like a small poke; a reminder that they had failed.

Harry and Ron returned to Professor Epoch's office to find him scrawling a mess of hurried equations onto his walls. Harry began to speak, but the professor held up his free hand to silence him as he finished writing.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Epoch said, "I'm just finishing my homework. Where have you two been? And why are you dripping water onto my floor?"

"Sorry, sir," Harry said. "We came back from the past into the rain."

"Rain?" the professor asked, confused. "It doesn't rain in the Room of Time, don't be silly."

"That's not where we came back from," Harry said. He explained their journey to the professor, who listened with a hungry appetite for new knowledge. Harry could tell that various aspects of the story disturbed the professor, but he was allowed to finish the whole story before facing interrogation.

"So you're saying that you not only saw the perpetrator, but dueled with him in the streets?" Epoch asked. "Merlin's beard! I must have sent you back into a time paradox. That's the only explanation. What you experienced in the bar would be proof of that. The fact that you can confirm that events in the past occurred exactly as you just experienced them is proof enough."

"But what does that mean?" Ron asked. "What's a pair of boxes?"

"Paradox, not pair of boxes, Ron," Epoch said. He chalked a drawing of a sideways letter 'd' onto the clear board in his office. "The straight part of the diagram represents the time line as we know it, and as it exists now. Normal, non-paradoxical time travel occurs along that line, and you can go back and forth at will. The curve represents your traveling back through time in a paradox. What that means is that it is predetermined in the time line that you were supposed to go back in time and live those events exactly as you saw them. In normal time travel, you can do what you want, but in a paradox, it is all predetermined as a sort of destiny. You can picture the difference like this: when you are traveling in a paradox, you might as well be watching a film through your eyes because you cannot change the outcome, but in normal time travel, you can influence your own actions. Does that make sense?"

"Not one bit," Ron said. "Don't hold up your explanation for my sake though. If you try and explain it more it'll just give me a headache."

"I was wondering though," Harry said, "if a paradox is predetermined, I wouldn't have control of my actions, right? That's not what it felt like going back in time just now though. For instance, when I was dueling with the thief, I was choosing the spells I was using. I chose to try and disarm him, but I also could have chosen to stun him, or even kill him."

"Time is relative, Harry," Epoch said. "You must always remember that. It is the most important principle of time travel. It was your choice what spells to use in your duel, in a way. But it also was not. Relative to your point of view you chose those spells, but in hindsight, you could not go back and change them now, right? Regardless, in time travel, it is also the ends that matter more than the means. No matter what spells you used, he still would have gotten away. That was what mattered, and everything else is essentially meaningless in the larger scheme of the universe."

"That's a rather unsettling thought that I might not be in control of my own actions even now," Harry said. Epoch smiled as if he enjoyed watching Harry toy with the prospect of his own helplessness in destiny's hands. It was like his and Voldemort's prophecy all over again. Dumbledore had said that the prophecy was optional in a way, and he could have chosen not to fulfill it. But how could he not have? Voldemort's evil had to be stopped at any cost, and there was no way that Harry would back down from the challenge. Given those facts, even the prophecy was infallible. "Never mind, I'll just confuse myself more. What do we do now?"

"Well, I think you found out a couple of things," Epoch said. "First thing we know is that, we're looking for a man."

"Well that's helpful," Ron said, smirking. "That's only half of the wizarding world."

"We also know that he has already figured out how to use the time turner," Harry said. "That means that he could be using it right now as we speak."

"Correct, Harry," Epoch said. "You also know a bit about the kinds of magic he can use, and the spells in his arsenal. That should definitely assist in your search. Unfortunately, we're going to have to wait until the thief next uses the time turner to learn more. Having said that, I would like to get back to my work, so if you'll excuse yourselves."

"We'll leave you then, Professor," Harry said, but the professor was already hard at work once more. He and Ron left without another word and returned to the Auror offices and their grueling work managing the incoming criminal activity reports.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 9: Bandits and Harpies **

It had been two months since the time turner had been stolen and the Aurors had not found any leads in their investigation. Not a single time vortex had been located anywhere in England, and somehow even the wormhole in the Leaky Cauldron had escaped their notice, despite the fact that it was right under their noses. High level unspeakables were furious at the Auror office for botching the investigation, but ironically they were bound by secrecy not to voice their concerns, so they resorted to petty name calling in their interdepartmental memos. They had a right to be furious though. The time turner project was the most anticipated breakthrough in years and now that their pet project was lying in shambles, the department was facing a lot of flak from the Ministry's budget office.

Millions of galleons had been funneled into the time turner project, and now that it had failed, the bureaucrats were out to protect themselves from other ministry departments. The money given to the Department of Mysteries for the time turner project had been transferred from several other departments. Now, half of the ministry was squawking over the money that they had never received, saying that they could have put the funds to better use. The only department not to request a winter budget increase was the Auror office, and they did not request one for fear of starting another round of interdepartmental budget battles.

Everyone turned their blame to the Aurors and their popularity within the Ministry took a nosedive in a matter of days. The end result of the Ministry's winter budgeting saw the Auror budget slashed to shift money over to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for a newly formed Alpha Detective Squadron, or ADS. In Harry's view, the ADS served the same purpose as the Aurors, and the ADS agents were even trained like Aurors. The difference was that the ADS reported directly to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and therefore were not as independent of Ministry policies and politics as the Aurors had always been. The appropriation was opposed by Kingsley Shacklebolt, who argued that splitting Auror funding with a redundant initiative could jeopardize the rule of law, but the Minister was overridden by members of the bureaucracy. They were shrewd to point out that the Minister had no direct authority over the budget, pointing to fine print in the Ministry Charter that indicated that the Minister was allowed to suggest a budget, but had no means to enforce it. Harry was disgusted by the newest wave of belligerent of Ministry politics, and it was then that he realized how little power that the Minister of Magic really had. The Ministry bureaucracy was a devil's snare, and it seemed that to sustain itself, it was willing to strangle the best that the Ministry had to offer.

Then the press came, led by none other than Rita Skeeter herself. For a week, the Daily Prophet headlined the supposed failings of the Auror office and crucified it as a hodge-podge of untalented misfits playing cop on the playground. She railed the Aurors as unfit for their positions, and meanwhile praised the ADS for making a number of recent arrests of maleficarum and necromancers. What the paper conveniently left out of the story was that the ADS had conducted its recent arrests based on information that had been originally gathered by the Aurors. It seemed that the only columnist in London not writing about the supposed fall of the Aurors was a woman by the name of Melissa Skeeter.

"Do you know who this Melissa Skeeter is, Ron?" Harry asked one day while they were working on filling boxes with evidence that was to be carted over to the ADS offices. Ron shrugged and Harry showed him a copy of the Daily Prophet. She held the byline of a story on the second page. The story accused the French Prime Minister of being the sole holdout in a deal at the international wizarding conference. According to the article, because of the French, no agreement was reached in discussions held behind closed doors and the conference was to resume the day after the New Year.

"It sounds like she might be Rita Skeeter's daughter or something," Ron said. "Maybe she's her niece. I don't know though, she's probably a crab like her mother though, or aunt, or grandmother, or whatever she is."

"Probably," Harry said. Harry was unaware that Rita Skeeter had children, or even a husband, but he was at least glad that the younger Skeeter was more focused on working over the French Prime Minister than the Aurors. "Whoever she is, I'm glad she's not attacking us like everyone else. This article is vicious and her sources seem excellent. She seems like a fantastic reporter."

"Well," Ron said, "here's to hoping that she's nothing like her mum then."

Despite all of the bad publicity and funding cuts, something good did come out of the Ministry's assault on the Auror office. Hanson Isgar was blamed for bungling the time turner investigation. As punishment, he was passed over for promotion and was forced to remain at the head of the Auror office as it sunk further under dark water. Now that his job security was on the line, he led the Aurors with newfound vigor and was able to salvage a good deal of the organization. He was able to prevent the ADS from commandeering his top Aurors, trading the newer organization men green from training on the promise that they would be more malleable to ADS policy. Evidence maintenance was another area where Isgar was able to save the Aurors from insignificance. When the ADS came to raid the Auror's office files and document storage, he instructed each Auror to take two cases that they felt were important and keep the files hidden with their private belongings or in their homes, where the ADS could not touch them. Isgar still despised Harry and Ron, and often made that clear, but Harry could not fault him for his efforts to keep the Aurors relevant. He may have come from the same class of technocrats that were stripping the Aurors bare, but they had abandoned him and he seemed content to fight them at every corner. Whether his motives were selfish or not, Harry was glad that Isgar had risen to the duty of his office and acting like a true Auror.

Harry and Ron had just returned from the brand new offices of the ADS when Isgar pulled them aside.

"Potter, Weaseley, I have something for you," Isgar said. He was out of breath and the past few weeks of Ministry restructuring had taken a clear toll on his composure. His once intimidating facade had been pealed back to reveal a stressed and desperate man.

"A real assignment sir," Harry said, "or did you want us to sort through more papers?"

"Potter, you know I still think you're not ready for a real case, but this is something personal for me," Isgar said and motioned for Harry and Ron to come closer to him. "I'm going to have you carting more evidence over to the ADS offices in the next week, but while you two are there, I want you to do some reconnaissance for me."

"Reconnaissance, sir?" Ron asked.

"Yes, I want to know how many men they keep on floor, where the Aurors they took from us are working, and how much evidence they've stockpiled that we don't have access to. If we're going to survive this inter-Ministry battle, we need as much information as we can get. Information is my business, and if you get some into my hands, it will help us weather this storm."

"Yes, sir," Harry said. "We'll consider ourselves deputized." Isgar glared at them for a moment, but the Gorgon had lost his hair. He turned and to walk back to his office and Harry smiled, knowing that with the cuts in staff, Isgar could not keep them away from real work much longer.

It was seven o'clock and the sky was dark by the time Harry left the Auror office and apparated to stadium of the Holyhead Harpies. The Muggle town of Holyhead was located on the isle of Anglesey in the northwest of Wales and the Harpies kept their stadium hidden away on a large sandbar off the coast of the island. It was a gigantic arena made of coral and metal filled with avian and nautical décor. The thatched awning that hung over the stands gave the stadium the appearance of a large bird's nest and the scoreboard hung from the talons of a vicious statue of a harpy.

Harry took a seat center stadium with a wide view of the field. It was the best seat in the house, and on a normal game night, Harry could not have sold his soul for such a good spot. That night was not a normal game night though. The Harpies were holding tryouts for two reserve chasers and a reserve keeper. Reserve players would never see action during the normal season unless a starting player had been injured in a previous game, or otherwise was unable to play. That said, to be a reserve player on a professional Quidditch team was a chance that many wizards would kill for. The salary was large enough to live very well on, but the real reason most people wanted to position was because it was one step away from the real McCoy.

Ginny had said that tryouts were running from ten in the morning until sunset, but it was dark by the time Harry arrived and tryouts were still going without any indication that they would be over soon. He had brought Ginny take-out from her favorite Chinese restaurant in London, but at the rate tryouts were progressing, it would be cold by the time she had finished. Harry imagined that there were hundreds of witches that had tried out for the positions, but now there were only eight remaining and Ginny was one of them. He had expected the Harpies' tryouts to be a series of drills like they had conducted at Hogwarts, but it appeared that the remaining eight players were set on opposite teams in the middle of a game. Each side fielded three chasers and a keeper and they battled it out while the Harpies players and coaching staff sat by the field taking exhaustive notes on the performance of each of the players.

Only one Harpy was in the air, and that was their captain, Gwenog Jones. She was playing referee and beater for both teams, which would have been an impossible task for any normal Quidditch player, but Jones seemed to be bored with it all. A lone bludger was flying around the field and Jones was using the Harpies hopefuls as target practice. Jones's role as beater made a surprisingly large amount of sense to Harry; if the players could dodge her bludgers, no beater in the league would be able to touch them.

Jones had noticed Harry's arrival and edged her broom into the stands until she was hovering next to him.

"Glasses and scarred face, you're Harry Potter, aren't you?" Jones asked and held out a sweaty hand for Harry to shake. "I'd heard you were quite the seeker in your days at Hogwarts. But now, word is that you're languishing behind a desk in the Ministry. Such a shame. I would have loved trying to bash a few more scars into you on the field."

"Honestly I think I'd have to pass on that offer." Harry said. "Not all of us can fly forever anyway."

"Nonsense," Jones said. "Everyone has a choice, and you just chose not to. My coaches have been trying to get me to retire for the past two years. They say I'm too old for the game, but I won't have any of it and they know not to cross me. Which one of my little lovelies flying around out there is your girlfriend?"

"How do you know she's my girlfriend?" Harry asked. He could tell that Jones already knew. She was either as perceptive as she was tough or she was just asking to be polite.

"It's a little obvious that you're here for her," Jones said. "Gryffindors all run in the same pack and I can smell the stench of the bad Chinese food you brought for her from across the field."

"How's Ginny been doing?" Harry said to change the subject as he shoved the bag of Chinese food under the seat.

"She's been stunning today," Jones said. "She's easily in our top three choices for the two chaser spots. I was talking with our coaches earlier and her reputation as captain of the Gryffindor team at Hogwarts her seventh year precedes her. I think there's a fantastic chance that she gets the spot. My managers would be stupid not to take her."

Jones turned her attention back to the game where one of the chasers fumbled what should have been an easy goal. The ball fell into Ginny's hands and she charged it down the field, knocking one of the opposing chasers into the stands as she went. The bludger game back to Jones, and she slammed it at Ginny who executed a rolling dodge with the grace and agility of fox. The bludger came back toward her, and she dodged again as if it was never even there. Ginny scored seconds later and Jones granted her a slow nod of acknowledgement, and Harry could tell that the Harpies captain was impressed.

"She's on the team," Jones said. "I'm sure of it. If I had my way she'd be starting too. Compared to the klutz of a reserve chaser we've been fielding in place of Menidina, she's ten times the player and twice the woman. What I would do to get her to play for me. The way she rips her opponents apart and spits on their guts is enthralling. I can understand her, and relate to her."

"That's a good thing, right?" Harry asked. Jones had been staring at Ginny with the hungriest of eyes, and Harry thought she had seen her roll the tip of her tongue across her lips, but he preferred to pretend he had imagined it.

"Yes, Harry," Jones said, "it's superb. Excuse me, I have to get back to my duties."

Jones flew back onto the field where she blew the whistle to continue the match. It continued for another hour until Ginny's team had scored their fiftieth goal. They had won by two hundred points. Jones called the game and the head coach congratulated the players for making it as far as they had in the tryout process, and announced that the spring roster would be out on January 1st of the New Year. The other Harpies hopefuls disbursed while Ginny glided over to Harry in the stands. She dismounted and gave him a salty kiss on the lips.

"How did I do?" Ginny asked. She sat down next to him and removed her pads.

"You were amazing out there," Harry said. "I was talking to Jones and she seemed to be very impressed with you.

"Really?" Ginny asked and Harry nodded. Her face lit up like a chandelier when she heard what Gwenog Jones had to say. Harry wondered what it must have felt like for Ginny to be praised by her childhood idol. He could see the immense pleasure and satisfaction painted across her face, but there was something else too, as if her inner aura was bursting with some indescribable joy that threatened to burst from her body in a screech of accomplishment. He was happy for her, and regardless of whether or not she made the team, he knew that she would be able to take it in stride, feeling as if she had. "I suppose my Chinese food is cold by now."

"Yeah," Harry said. He had hoped that she would not notice it. "I threw it under my seat. It was stinking up the place."

"Don't worry about it, it's the thought that counts, love," she said and kissed him.

When Jones finished conversing with her team and the coaching staff, she and another Harpy climbed through the stands to where Ginny and Harry were sitting.

"Gwenog," Ginny said, "what are you doing up here?"

"I just came to congratulate you," Jones said. "We just finished with coach and we agreed that you were our number one pick. I know that the roster won't come out for another month or so, but since you're still here I wanted to welcome you to the Holyhead Harpies."

Hearing this, Ginny's face lit up once more with that radiant, euphoric joy, and Harry was worried that she was going to scream or cry, or embarrass herself in some other way. She did not though, and instead she took Jones's hand with genuine graciousness and shook it as if she were receiving the appointment from the Minister of Magic himself. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you very much for the opportunity, Gwenog. I accept."

"Wonderful!" Jones said. She motioned for Ginny to shake the other Harpy's hand as well. "As I'm sure you know this is Katie Burr. She's our leading chaser and you'll be working with her for the most part. The other reason why we're up here is that we wanted to ask you to dinner some time over the winter holiday. Call it a welcome party of sorts."

"That sounds amazing, Gwenog," Ginny said. "Can I bring Harry along as well?"

"No," Harry said, interjecting. "Don't worry about me, Ginny. It's all right."

"I think that's a great idea," Jones said. She looked to Katie and the chaser agreed. "We'll call it a triple date. Katie can bring her husband, and I'll make sure that my boyfriend, Chandler, is available."

"It's settled then," Ginny said. "Just send me an owl so we can discuss plans."

Jones agreed and the Harpies left to rejoin their team.

"Ginny," Harry said, "you didn't have to—"

"—I wanted to, Harry." Ginny cut him off. "My joining this team is incredible. If you told me four years ago that I'd be here, I would have laughed you out of the room. But now that I'm here and I want to share the moment with you. Besides, my being part of the Harpies is going to affect us in a big way, and I don't want you to get the ground swept out from under you."

Harry slid his arms around her and held her as they watched the moon rise. The Harpies left the stadium and within five minutes, the overhead lights had been darkened, leaving only the stars and the first cool winter breeze of the season.

"Come with me," Ginny said. She grabbed her broom and led Harry down onto the field. She ducked into a cave-dark locker room, pulling Harry in with her. Using her wand for light, she found her way over to a locked door near the back of the room.

"_Alohomora_," Ginny said. Her wand clicked open the lock and she went inside.

"Ginny," Harry said as he checked around him to make sure that no one had seen them. The room was blacker than ash and he could barely see his hand in front of him. "You just got onto the team. Are you sure you want to be breaking into their locker rooms?"

"Don't worry, we won't get caught," Ginny said from inside of the closet. That was just like her. She fumbled around for a moment until she found what she was looking for. When she emerged, she was carrying a broom for Harry, and a golden snitch.

"What are you doing with those, Ginny?" Harry asked.

"Wanna race me for it?" She smiled and threw the ball to Harry as a challenge. The snitch's wings unfurled in his hand and it zoomed out of the locker room into the sky. "We don't have a choice now, Harry. We'll just have to get it back."

He accepted her challenge and they ran out to the field. The snitch was still in view, doing loops through the goalposts like a playful pixie. Before Harry could even mount his broom, Ginny was in the air, chasing the snitch across the field. He kicked off hard from the ground and let the Harpies' broom do the rest. It was a powerful Firebolt 3, the latest in world class broom construction. Harry felt lighter and faster than he ever had before on his old broom and the sensation took a moment to get used to. He steadied himself and gave chase to the snitch.

Ginny was on the tail of the snitch as it flitted through the stands. She stretched her arm out in front of her when she was close enough to her goal, but the snitch dropped speed so she overshot it and had to come about to continue the chase. Harry was the closest now and he grabbed for it, but missed. He tried again, but the snitch was able to dodge once more. Ginny pulled up beside him and raced him to the deadpoint. It was Ginny who prevailed, snatching the snitch between her middle finger and thumb, and then dragging it in to the rest of her hand. She looked over at Harry and flashed him a victor's grin as they returned to the ground, and he knew that she had earned the right to brag. It did not matter to him though, because it had been worth the chance to fly again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 10****: Christmas Cheer**

The Daily Prophet offices were draped with festivity and flair, and between the holly and the massive golden Christmas tree it was obvious that the Christmas holiday was growing near. Even the staff took the bright and cheery themes of holiday season to heart, imparting happiness and goodwill when they could. The sheer number of gifts exchanged made it impossible to determine who had given more than they had received, but no one seemed to mind. Melissa tried to involve herself in the festivities, and even agreed to dress in red and green stockings as an elf with Tweedle and the rest of the sports writers for the annual office photo. Beaty played the part of Father Christmas in the picture, while Rita Skeeter played a rather risqué Mrs. Clause.

Despite the festivities, there was still work to be done, and on the evening of the office Christmas party, Melissa was hunched over her desk penning her latest article. Beaty had promoted Melissa to the position of investigative reporter after she wrote a slew of independent articles on the French Minister of Magic and the International Wizarding Conference. She had shot through the lower ranks faster than anyone except her mother and she was now working at the international desk as chief reporter. Her work was impressive, which made her mother happy and all of it was a result of Tweedle's time turner. It was the most useful tool that she had available to her, save for her quill, and she utilized it whenever she needed help dredging up a scoop. She had even used the time turner to break into the French Foreign Minister's office to find information on their diplomatic priorities.

It was an hour after the Prophet had closed for the night, but Melissa was still placing the finishing touches on an article on international Christmas traditions when Beaty came to pay her a visit.

"Melissa," Beaty said. He plucked the quill from her hand and laid it on her desk. "I appreciate all of the extra work that you've been putting in the past few months but now is not the time. The office is closed and the Christmas party starts in fifteen minutes. I wouldn't want you to miss it."

The Daily Prophet had rented out Rowena's Restaurant in Diagon Alley every year for its annual Christmas party. Rowena's was a traditional seafood house that had been serving some of the oddest seafood concoctions in London for a century. The first time a Daily Prophet food critic went to sample the restaurant's cuisine, the chef had served him an orange roasted giant squid suction cup steak that the critic could only describe as the most delicious thing that he had ever had stuck to the back of this throat. Needless to say, Melissa was not looking forward to eating whatever the chef had managed to whip up for the party, but she knew that her attendance was mandatory.

"Don't worry, Beaty, I'll be there," Melissa said and picked up her quill again. "Just let me finish up here. I won't be long."

"I was actually hoping that you might escort me over there," Beaty said, extending his hand toward the door. "There were some business matters that I wished to discuss with you."

Melissa sighed, knowing that Beaty was not going to take "no" for an answer. She corked her ink bottle, gathered her things into her bag and followed him out. Beaty did the talking as they walked, but she could not remember a word that he said more than a couple of seconds after it had left his lips. She listened instead to the cool winter breeze whistling past her face and the laughter of children playing in the snow. Diagon Alley was paradise in the winter. Frost covered the streets like a long white carpet, and the windows were iced over with the crystal clear chill of the winds. Every storefront was decorated in festive red streamers and bows, and mistletoe hung from the streetlamps. Many of the stores had remained open for last minute holiday shoppers even though it was long past their advertised closing hours. Madam Malkin's buy one, get one, sale on robes was rather fashionable this year, while Sugarplum's Sweets had decorated their windows with human-sized candy canes and was packed to the brim with customers.

When they passed by Eyelops, Duncan was outside tending to the snowy owls in his cages outside. They were the most popular breed during Christmas and he displayed the whole stock in front of the store so that passerby would get a clear view of the merchandise. She blew him a friendly kiss as they passed, and Duncan caught it and placed it in his pocket for later.

Melissa had never been inside of Rowena's Restaurant before, but she had passed by its slim exterior several times without a second thought. When they arrived, it was as she had pictured it: cramped. The dining area was a petite and intimate setting lit only with tabletop candles and a single, diminutive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. All of the tables had been connected together in one long line that snaked through the restaurant like the letter 's' to provide enough space for all of the Prophet staff to sit together. Beaty led Melissa over to what appeared to be the center of the table and sat her across from her mother, who was already half way though her first cocktail.

"Hello, Melissa," Rita said. "Glad to see that you've made it."

"I was just finishing a column for the Sunday Prophet," Melissa said as she unfolded the napkin in front of her and placed it on her lap, "the Christmas edition that is, even though Sunday is the day after Christmas this year. Beaty wanted everything in by tomorrow before the Prophet's offices close for the holidays."

"And she's been doing fantastic work lately," Beaty said, "wouldn't you agree Rita?"

"Yes, I think that her recent finesse in lampooning the French is extraordinary," Rita said and took a sip of her drink. "You must tell me some day how you get your information, dear. If my informants were half as competent as yours, the Aurors would all be out of work by now."

"Wouldn't that be a bad thing?" Melissa asked. She had not been following her mother's crusade against Auror affairs, but she had always been told that the Aurors were the best defensive force England had. "They're around to keep us safe, right?"

"You should read more than the international section of the paper, Melissa," Rita said. "If you did, you'd know that the new Alpha Detective Squad is better trained and better equipped than the Aurors ever were. They're also more beholden to the Ministry and Ministry policy. In their heyday the Aurors used to be like the dementors; they were a powerful force but they could not truly be controlled. They were loyal to the Ministry, but they could do whatever they wanted. The ADS was formed so that there would be checks and balances on its actions."

"Couldn't that get in the way of them solving crimes though?" Melissa asked. "If Ministry policy got in the way of them capturing a murderer, wouldn't that be bad? Or what if the general Ministry policy was bad?"

"Ministry policy is not bad, Melissa," Rita said. "A situation like the one that you're talking about would never happen."

"Ladies, please," Beaty said trying to calm the mood. "The main course has arrived."

Rowena's staff was flooding into the room carrying large trays of food. The meal smelled delicious; however, it looked to be on the brink of inedible. The head of a dolphin sat on top of a light bed of spinach salad. The dolphin's eyes and teeth were still intact, and a long jagged blade was sticking out of the poor thing's skull. The dish appeared to be garnished with rosemary and thyme.

"Dinner is served," said one of the waiters. "Our chef has prepared for you tonight a delicacy: broiled dolphin cerebrum. I will also add that the meat on the cheek bones is also very sweet and has been cooked to perfect a medium-rare. Enjoy."

"Thank you," Beaty said to the waiter, "and give my complements to the chef. He has outdone himself this year."

The Prophet staff was reluctant to eat at first, but they did and showed their approval with quaint moans of satisfaction intertwined with cautious curiosity. Melissa eyed her food and it appeared to be staring back at her. She lost her appetite and folded her napkin onto the table. She decided to return to conversation. "So do you have any plans for Christmas, mother?" Melissa asked.

"No, I was just planning on staying in," Rita said as she carved out the dolphin's brain with her knife. "Why do you ask?"

"I was going to try and surprise you on Christmas morning," Melissa said, "but now is as good of a time as any to spring it on you. I sent owls to our relatives: my cousins, aunts, your brother, everyone and they're all coming into town for Christmas. We're going to have a party at my apartment."

Rita dropped her fork and tried to pick a section of brain matter from her teeth. "Your apartment is not big enough."

"It's just a few people, so we won't need much space. They were all very interested in how you are doing. None of them have heard from you in years."

"It'll stay that way. I'm not going."

"But why, Mother? It's all planned and everyone wants to see you."

"You should have asked me first so I could have told you my answer then," Rita finished her drink and snapped the waiter over to refill it. "Melissa, never go behind my back like this again. You've already done so on too many occasions."

"What do you mean?" Melissa asked. She was confused because everything she had written since the screening article had been with the approval of both her mother and Beaty. "What other occasions?"

"This for example," Rita said. She pulled an envelope from her bag and slid it across the table to Melissa. It was addressed to the offices of the Quibbler and Melissa knew in an instant that it contained poetry that she had submitted for Mr. Lovegood's poetry contest. Heartbroken rage began to boil inside of her, brewing an outburst of pure malice that she had to wrestle down into her gut to contain. "I have no objections to any literary aspirations that you may have, but darling, please do not send them into the Quibbler of all places."

"The nerve you had to stop me!" Melissa said. She had meant it to come out in a quiet growl, but it burst out of her louder than a bombshell detonating on impact. The room was silent, and even Rowena's servers had stopped what they were doing. Melissa's rage simmered into an angry sorrow as white hot tears began to stream down the sides of her face; rivers of lost innocence. She grabbed the envelope, shoved it into her bag and fled from the restaurant. No one cared to try and stop her.

Melissa staggered outside into the frigid night. Petite white droplets of snow had begun to fall while she was at the party and so she pulled the hood of her coat over her head to stay warm. She walked through the streets without knowing her destination and without purpose, save to distance herself from her mother. Melissa now understood why so many people despised Rita Skeeter. She was a selfish and cold woman without a care for anyone or anything except her job. She could not let her daughter write bad stories about the Ministry because it would contradict her own. She would not let Melissa try to argue when it became popular to attack the Aurors. She would not see her family because she had nothing to gain from them and she would not allow Melissa to publish in the Quibbler because it might sully both of their good names. Rita Skeeter was a parasite and a worm, feeding on everybody around her for her own sick enjoyment and Melissa was ashamed to be her daughter.

Melissa's feet had taken her to the doorstep of Eyelop's Owl Emporium. The owls on display had all been moved inside and the shop was closed for the evening. She peered into one of the shop's windows and saw through her water stained eyes that Duncan was still inside, sweeping the floor. She twisted the knob on the door back and forth, but it was locked.

"Sorry," she heard Duncan say, "we're closed for the night. You can come back tomorrow."

Melissa banged her fist three times on the door. She had to see him. She needed to talk to someone, and he was her only real friend. "Duncan, it's Melissa," she said. "Please open the door."

She heard the old man's steady footsteps plod over to her. He clicked the lock open and pulled the door ajar. Melissa rushed to him with her arms outstretched, embraced him and began to sob into his jacket. He put his gentle, warm hands around her and pulled her inside of the shop, shutting the door to keep out the snow.

"Duncan," Melissa said, "thank you. I just need someone to talk to. It was horrible. She's a horrible witch. I hate her!"

"It's all right," she heard him say. His voice was different from what she remembered; it was softer and younger. Then she noticed how tall he was and it was then that she realized that the man holding her was not Duncan. "Who's a horrible witch?"

Melissa shoved him away in panic and staggered around looking for the doorknob. "Get away from me, squib!" she said. The doorknob was lower on the door than she had thought, although she found it nonetheless. His hand was already there. She wondered what he was planning to do. He was taller and bigger and could overpower her with his ape-like arms. He would rape her, maybe kill her, and there was nothing she could do except scream for her life.

Then she felt the cool night wind against her face, and a droplet of snow melted against her cheek. Angelo had opened the door for her. "If you want to go, just go," he said. There was a sorrowful sense of defeat in his tone, as though he had proposed marriage to her, and she had thrown the ring in his face. In a way, Melissa thought, she had spit on his pride. She thought about how shy he was and how long he must have waited for a chance to approach her, and just to hold her as he did must have taken a great deal of courage. She could not imagine how she ever thought that he had meant to hurt her. She was struck by his good intentions and was unsure what to do about it. "If I'm not magical enough to hold a simple conversation with you, then I could care less what happens to you."

"I'm sorry," Melissa said and she knew that she meant it. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I—you startled me and, well, I didn't know what to do. I thought you were Duncan."

"Oh, I see," Angelo said. She did not think that he believed his lie, but it did appear as though he had accepted her apology. They stood in the doorway for a moment like a pair of awkward ducks on either side of the road. One would have to cross to meet the other, but would risk being trampled in the rush of life. It was Angelo who took the first step. "Well, if you wanted to stay, I could make us a cup of coffee."

Melissa thought to consider his offer, but she felt her head begin to nod up and down before she had made her decision. "Sure, I suppose I can stay and talk with you instead if you don't mind."

Angelo led her into the back room where he lit a small oil lamp for light. He dug an old, rusted pot out from under the sink and used it to boil the water. There was a small table set by the stove and Melissa seated herself close to door, just in case. "So did Duncan go home then?" Melissa asked.

"Yeah, when the snow starting coming down he got the birds inside and left," Angelo said. He stirred coffee grounds into the boiling water and left it to simmer. "He thought it might be part of a larger storm and he wanted to try and get home before it hit. He told me to sweep the floors and lock up."

"What if the storm hit while you were still here?" Melissa asked. "Would you be able to get home all right?"

"This is home," Angelo said. He poured two mugs of coffee and brought them over to the table. "Duncan pays for my food, and boards me in his store, and in exchange I give him twenty-four hour service for the owls."

"He'd better be giving you some damn good food, or a lot of it if this is the room he's giving you," Melissa said. She had hoped that Angelo would laugh with her, but instead he bored his eyes into the wall behind her. His room was bare, save for the stove, table, chairs and a cot with opposite color sheets in the corner on the room. Melissa began to worry that she had offended him by insulting what little he had. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine, Melissa," Angelo said, quieting her with a soft hand on her wrist. "Please, tell me why you were so upset when you got here."

Melissa told him the whole story. She started with her article on Auror procedures, then her attempts to please her mother, and about that night's party. Angelo listened to her story, absorbing all of the small details as if they were grains of sugar for his coffee. When she finished, the tears had returned and he put his arms around her, comforting her as she flushed her problems from her body and mind. He handed her a small handkerchief to wipe it all away and then settled back into his chair to think.

"Do you still have your poetry?" he asked, reminding Melissa that she had stuffed it into her bag at the restaurant. She took out the envelope and placed it on the table. Angelo put his hand on it and began to drag it toward him. "May I read it?"

Melissa nodded her approval and Angelo took her work out to read it. His eyes tensed at the words on the page and he stopped to scratch the side of his head. Then he put the page on the table and grimaced. Melissa's heart plummeted into the depths of her soul as she took back the paper. "Is it that bad?" she asked him.

He stared into her eyes for a moment, insinuating what she thought to be true. Then he smiled and began to laugh. "Your face just now was priceless," he said, and then continued to laugh. She folded the page over and slapped him across the face with it. "Relax, Melissa. You know I was joking around. I had to get you back for everything you've said to me tonight."

Melissa cracked a sly smile at that and knew that she had deserved it. "Fine, you got me, Angelo," she said. "How was it really though?"

"To be honest with you, I didn't really look at it," Angelo said. "I was hoping that you might be willing to do me the honor of reading it to me."

"Well, I, uh, I guess," Melissa said. She had never done a staged reading before and did not know what to do. She cleared her throat and prepared to read her piece aloud. "I can't do this, I'm sorry."

She tried to put the paper back on the table, but Anglo shoved it back into her face. "Please read," he said. "Don't worry about it. Just read naturally." Melissa took a deep breath and began:

"Day by Day By: Melissa Skeeter

"We walk by way of the water

Day by day you guide me, and

Day by day you carry me home.

You are my guiding spirit, my hope

My secret love, and day by day

You show me the way.

"Our paths may diverge

You may leave my adrift

In some foreign current,

But day by day you write

And day by day I know

That you will be my guide

You will bring me back

Across the narrow bay

And hold me in your arms

Like you did last Christmas."

They sat in silence for a moment, as if the poem had continued on for another stanza. "We need to get you an owl," Angelo said and ducked into the store.

"What for?" Melissa asked. Then she realized what Angelo intended to do. "Angelo, it's too late. The deadline was at five o'clock today. It's almost after nine."

"It can't hurt to try," Angelo said as he returned with an owl perched on his arm. It was a black and gray tawny owl; the one that Melissa had been admiring every time she came to visit since the fall. "If this works, it works. If it doesn't then the Quibbler missed an opportunity, but you can go on with your life. If you don't try now, you'll wake up tomorrow, wondering if you might have made it. Do you get me?"

"Yes, I think," Melissa said as she considered his proposal. He wasted no time in snatching the letter from her hands, resealing the envelope and sending it off with the owl into the starry sky.

As the owl disappeared from view, Melissa felt a sense of relief wash over her, as if the wounds of that night had been bandaged and the healing process had begun. She turned to Angelo and smiled, letting him know that he had done the right thing.

"Thank you for listening, Angelo," she said. "You're really good at it."

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better," he said. "What would you say to me cooking you dinner? I know you said that you hadn't eaten."

"I would say thank you," Melissa said. "What do you have?"

"Let me see," Angelo said and he began to dig through his cabinets. "I have some rice. There's some more rice. I have more coffee beans, and I have an apple."

Angelo popped his head out of his cabinets and looked at Melissa for an answer. The dolphin cheeks sounded quite appetizing now compared to what he had in his pantry. "While I think that coffee bean apple rice sounds delicious, what would you say to us going out for dinner?" Melissa asked.

"You would take a squib like me out in public to dinner?" His astonished eyes betrayed that the thought of a witch asking him out had never even crossed his mind.

"I don't mind it. Hell, I don't even care that your bed sheets don't match. I just want to thank you for everything."

"You don't think my bed sheets match? They're both sort of white."

"Are you joking?" Melissa laughed. "One is sort of yellowish and the other is peach colored. They're horribly mismatched, especially with your blue blanket."

"Well I suppose they might not match exactly, but they work fine," Angelo said, "I would like to go to dinner though if you'll have me, but it will have to be your treat. I'm broke." Melissa nodded and they gathered their coats. That morning, Melissa would have been loath to take a squib out for dinner, but this one was not as bad as she had imagined. She saw him now as a man, and not as a squib as she had before. He had treated her like a human being even after she had insulted him and the least that she could do was give him the same courtesy.

After dinner at a local pub, she walked Angelo home and then returned to the Daily Prophet offices. She had forgotten to turn in her time sheet for the previous week, and she wanted to make sure that it was on Beaty's desk in the morning. She used the unlocking charm to open the side door to the Prophet offices and walked inside to her desk. She stopped when she heard the sound of someone bustling around in Beaty's office. Both the door and the window blinds were closed shut and she could not distinguish anything inside. Then she heard a sound like a voice; it was louder than a whisper, but softer than a whine, and it was coming from the shuttered room. It was the sound of her mother's voice. Melissa could not make out what she was saying, so she moved closer, trying to make as little noise as possible.

"I can't control her. She doesn't listen," Rita said and Melissa knew that she was talking about her. "This isn't working, Beaty. We'll have to scrap our plans and start over. He'll be furious."

Beaty hesitated before replying. He said: "You don't need to control her. You just need to guide her toward her goals, and I think you're doing a good job of that. The Prophet's owner does not care if it takes us a little while longer. He has time to spare, and we're already ahead of schedule."

"It's just that we've invested so much in Melissa and she's come a long way," her mother said. "I can't let her fail now. I won't let her get distracted like this. I'm worried, Beaty."

"And in my mind your fears are irrational. Melissa is by no means failing. She's polling well with our readers and her articles are brilliant. I think she's done an amazing job over these past few months. All she needed was that little push."

"She has been turning in very impressive work lately. If I can say one thing, it's that I'm proud of how far she's progressed as a writer." Melissa echoed those words in her head, basking in their sentiment. Her mother was proud of her, and for the first time in her life, Melissa felt as though she had begun to fulfill her purpose in life. She wanted to burst into Beaty's office and give her mother a long and apologetic hug, but she knew that it would be rude to interrupt then. That could wait.

"Exactly, you don't need to worry," Beaty said, "She'll pull through for us and I really wouldn't worry about a little note or two in the Quibbler. Melissa is going to do big things for us, and when she does, the world will have no idea what hit it."

Melissa smiled to herself, drunken on high praise. She tiptoed out of the office and headed for home. The time sheet could wait until the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be use for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 11: Aged With Time**

An interdepartmental memo was sitting at Harry's desk when he came into work the day before Christmas Eve. His name and address were scrawled diagonally along the page as if the sender had still been finalizing the letter as it was flying out the door. The return address was what caught Harry's eye, however. It was from the Department of Mystery's Time Division. Harry ripped open the paper airplane and began to read.

"What's that you've got there?" Ron asked from his desk.

"It's a memo from Professor Epoch," Harry said. "He says he's found us a lead and it's urgent. Grab your things and let's go."

Harry tossed his invisibility cloak into his traveling bag along with some other odds and gadgets and slipped his wand into his pocket. "Are you ready to go, Ron?" he asked.

"Hold on a second mate," Ron said. Harry peaked over the cubical wall into Ron's office to find Ron eating a chocolate covered doughnut. "Let me finish my breakfast first."

Harry did not want to wait, so he pulled out his wand. "_Reducto minima,_" he said, aiming at the doughnut, which melted into a brown, yeasty gunk on Ron's hand.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Ron asked, furious. "I was almost done anyway!"

"There's no time, let's go," Harry said and left his desk. Ron followed close behind, licking the doughnut goop off of his hands as he walked.

They arrived in Professor Epoch's office to find the professor supervising Hermione in deriving a complex equation on one of his blackboards.

"So because the half-life of temporal particles is eight hours, we're talking about particles that are approximately seven days and four and a half hours old, right?" Hermione asked.

"Well done, Hermione," Epoch said and gave her a pat on the back, which made it seem as though he was impressed, but the calmness of his face betrayed his lack of surprise. "Harry, Ron, come over here. We have work to do." Epoch pulled both of them by their arms over to his desk.

"We aren't going to have to do anything like that, are we?" Ron asked, pointing at the chalk board that Hermione was scribbling on.

"It's actually not very complicated," Hermione said. "I'm sure Harry would understand it if I taught him."

"Harry would understand it?" Ron asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Ronald," Hermione said and took a seat on the floor. Her hair was strung from its roots and frazzled. It appeared as though she had just been struck by lightning while riding on top of the Hogwarts Express. She yawned and buried her face in her hands, making Harry wonder how hard Epoch was working her.

"No, seriously," Ron said. He pointed to the board. "What's that little squiggly line there supposed to mean."

"That's a parenthesis, Ron," Hermione said through her hands.

"So what have you found, Professor?" Harry asked, trying to divert the conversation away from Hermione. "Your memo said it was urgent."

"Yes, of course," Epoch said. "That new Alpha Detection Unit or whatever it's called has been given joint jurisdiction with the Aurors for the time turner search under the Omega Directive. They've found the remnants of a time vortex in London, and no less, right here in the middle of the Ministry. Hermione and I have been tracking the rate of temporal decay, and the vortex is approximately two days old. It goes back in time about eight hours. That's well within reach of a time jump, and I would suggest that you make the best of this opportunity."

"Just tell us where it is, and we'll find it," Harry said. Professor Epoch did not offer an immediate answer, but instead smirked and dragged a finger to his lips and gave the boys a gentle shush. Harry looked to the floor and saw that Hermione was asleep, curled up against the wall.

"I think she's earned a night off, Harry," Epoch said. "Ron, take the time turner off of her wrist so that you can use it. The vortex was found outside of the Spanish ambassador's office. Set your watches so that you'll arrive at about four-thirty in the morning two days ago."

"That's the first time I've ever seen Hermione worked to death," Ron said as he took Hermione's watch off of her wrist and strapped it to his own. "She must really be into this stuff."

With their time turners ready, they tiptoed out of Epoch's office and headed for the Diplomatic level. Once they got there, they found a bathroom that they could use to go back in time.

When they emerged from the time vortex, they found themselves in a pitch black space.

"_Lumos_," Harry said. The tip of his wand sparked with a small bulb of light and they saw that they had arrived as intended. Harry pulled the invisibility cloak from his bag and held it open. "Get under here with me."

Ron ducked under the cloak with Harry but when they tried to cover themselves with it, they were dismayed to find that the soles of their feet showed out from under the cloak. "We used to be a lot smaller, didn't we, Harry?" Ron asked. They squeezed together as close as they could, and the cloak dropped low enough to the ground for it to hide them from view.

"At least we don't have Hermione along too," Harry said. They walked out of the bathroom, being careful to time their steps evenly so that the cloak would stay over them. They made it to the Spanish ambassador's office to find the door propped open.

"That's weird," Ron said. "If the thief left the door open, wouldn't the Spanish ambassador have notified security of a breach the next morning?"

"Maybe the thief is still here then," Harry said.

"But what about what Epoch said?" Ron asked, "Because we don't know who it is now, we can't find out in the past, right?"

"Not if this is another paradox like what happened last time," Harry said. He hoped that was the case, and this time, he was sure that he would win. He would make the arrest here and return to the present as a hero. His actions would restore the Auror name, but more importantly, Isgar would be forced to concede that Harry was indeed ready to investigate the big cases.

Harry creaked open the door and slipped inside with his wand at the ready. The Spanish ambassador's office was decorated in lavish blood red drapery that hung around the room like expensive silk streamers. On one wall, there was a display of Minotaur horns in myriad shapes and sizes above an arsenal of wooden hunting staves. The exhibit was meant to intimidate those who entered, but Harry thought that it was unnecessary and overdone.

The time turner thief was nowhere to be found and the only sign of life in the room was a white snowy owl perched on the windowsill.

"We missed him," Harry said under his breath to Ron and pocketed his wand. He noticed a stack of papers on the Spanish ambassador's desk. They appeared to be diplomatic cables from other embassies within the Ministry. All of them seemed to focus on forcing the French ambassador to concede to some sort of alliance. Many of the documents were blacked and censored and some were so vague that they could not mean anything real at all. Then he noticed the boxes. They were arrayed on the floor behind the ambassador's desk, spread out by the window. All of them were marked with one word: "Destroy."

Harry motioned to Ron and the two of them sidestepped over to the mass of boxes. They opened the lid of the first one and began to dig through its contents. The owl looked in their direction and tilted its head as if to determine the peculiar movement of the box top; the invisibility cloak would have made it impossible to determine how it happened. The first box was a load of diplomatic cables that contained no useful information, so Harry opened up a second box, and then a third. The third box contained a file of Department of Ministry blueprints, and what looked like plans. There were symbols, and some words in Spanish that Harry was unable to read. The documents were too specific and sophisticated to be simple maps of the Ministry; and the markings almost seemed as if they were potential escape routes, marked in case of emergency. Harry returned the plans to the box and continued looking.

None of the other boxes contained anything out of the ordinary, and so Harry turned his investigation to the ambassador's desk. The top drawer was partially open already, but it contained nothing more than quills, ink and parchment. Several of the side drawers were empty, but one drawer in the bottom right of the desk was locked. Harry used his wand to open it. Inside were a small stash of galleons and a small folder of documents. Harry placed the folder on the desk and opened it to find that it contained a single letter to Kingsley Shacklebolt that was signed by the Spanish Minister of Magic. It informed Kingsley that Spain was planning to withdraw the Spanish Ambassador from Britain because of events that occurred at the International Wizarding Conference. The conference had not yet occurred though, and the letter was dated for January tenth, which was two days after the summit was to conclude.

"Moving out then?" Ron said as he read the letter.

"It looks that way," Harry said. "It's as if they know what the decision at the summit is going to be. You wouldn't write this and mark all of your files to be destroyed if you weren't certain of what was going to happen. This whole conference has been very secretive. None of the heads of the wizarding nations have given any hint as to the topics being discussed or the proposals that have been given. Things must be very tense indeed if the Spanish are going to withdraw their ambassador. We should take this with us." Harry shut the file and began to slide it under the invisibility cloak, but before he knew what had happened, the owl had left its perch and snatched the file from its hand as if it understood its importance. The owl sped around the room, gaining speed as it came about. Harry readied his wand, but before he could cast a spell, the owl flew over his head and out of an open window behind the desk. It disappeared into the long shadows of early morning.

Ron ripped the cloak off and turned to Harry. "Did you see that?" Ron asked. "The bloody bird just flew the coop with our evidence. It's almost as if the owl was sitting here guarding it."

"That would have been one very well trained owl," Harry said. He began to search the area where the owl had been perched. "It's not impossible though. I once taught Hedwig to attack my cousin Dudley every time he tried to read my school books."

"Hey, Harry," Ron said. "I think we might have just found our first real clue on the thief's identity."

"What did you find, Ron?" Harry asked. He turned to face Ron, who was holding a small strand of hair between his finger and thumb.

"You've been talking about the thief as if he's a man, but I think she's actually a woman," Ron said. He was right. The hair was a long, golden curl too long and too blonde to have come from the Spanish ambassador.

"That could be anyone's hair," Harry said. "It's not the ambassador's, but it could be one of his aides, or maybe a visitor's hair."

"But if I'm right, we'll know who the thief is. Besides, they clean these rooms each night magically. It's not like they'd miss a strand of hair because they're very thorough. That means it must have recently fallen off of someone's head."

"I guess anything's possible," Harry said. "Let's take it back to the future with us then. I have an idea that might tell us exactly who the thief is. If the lead pans out, we could stop this before it goes any further."

Harry and Ron led Hermione and Professor Epoch through the Auror offices, past the shrinking maze of cubicles. Many Aurors had been fired due to budget cuts and more had been transferred into the ADS and demoted, but the few that remained worked harder than ever before, trying to prove that they were still worthy of their positions. All of them were too preoccupied with their jobs that they neither noticed, nor cared where Harry was going.

They unlocked the door to the Auror's supply room and were surprised, but relieved to find that what they needed was still there. The ADS had confiscated the majority of Auror equipment and all that was left were what the Aurors held in their offices and a small box of sneakoscopes in the corner. What they required however, was in the center of the room. It was a sleek metallic box welded to the floor that was just tall enough and long enough to have the appearance of a sarcophagus. The ADS probably left it only because they thought it would have been too much trouble cut it lose.

"Is that thing what we're here for?" Hermione asked. Harry nodded and knelt down by the box.

"One standard sized apportion of Polyjuice Potion please, authorization Potter Alpha-Alpha-Phi," Harry said. The box rose a few inches, releasing a frigid burst of steam from the floor and a small chute popped out of the metal. Harry took a flask from his pocket as the thick dark mud began to drizzle out of the box and onto the chute. He collected the Polyjuice potion, and the box reset to its original position.

"Fascinating, Harry," Epoch said. "Does it keep the potion fresh?"

"That's exactly right professor," Harry said. "This box was commissioned by the Aurors so that we could store large batches of potion for long periods of time so that we did not have to brew them again for each individual instance. It was obviously convenient for potions like the Polyjuice Potion that can take months to brew. Ron, do you have the hair we found?"

"I have it, but I think we have a small problem," Ron said. Harry turned around and Ron showed him the hair. Its once golden color had grayed, and the curl had flatted out into a scraggly mess.

"What happened, Ron?" Harry asked. "What did you do to it?"

"Me?" Ron asked, pointing to himself. "What do you mean what did I do? I didn't do anything. It's just been sitting in the pocket of my robe."

"You must have done something, you had it," Harry said. "Check your robes again and make sure that's the right hair."

"I think it is, I don't have any other hairs on me except the ones attached to me head, and those are red," Ron said. Harry picked up the strand of hair and examined it, trying to find any possible resemblance between it and the hair that Ron had found in the past, but he was unable to.

"I think I might be able to offer an explanation," Epoch said. He sat down on the potion storage box and raised his hands to begin his explanation as if he were about conduct an orchestra of reason. "This is only a guess, but it is educated. We know that time particles decay over time, and that's how we can determine how far in the past any given anomaly goes. It's possible that the same temporal distortions that cause time particles to shrink over time have also caused cellular decay in the hair follicle that you've brought back to the present with you. The hair is the same hair, it's just aged. It looks a bit older."

"How come our bodies don't get all wrinkly when we time travel then?" Ron asked.

"I can't say, because this is the first time I've ever observed this phenomenon in this manner," Epoch said. "We've never tried to bring something like a dead hair into the future before. My guess is that your bodies can compensate for the rate of decay by producing new cells at a faster rate than the decay of the aging ones. It looks like the cell exchange is net neutral, as neither of you are dead yet."

"But if one jump could turn that hair ancient, isn't it possible that there are some adverse effects to time travel?" Hermione asked. Everyone waited for an answer, but the professor remained silent.

"These time turners are safe to use, right?" Ron asked.

"They're fine and I wouldn't worry about it," Epoch said, but Harry could sense that he did not believe he was telling the truth.

"Professor, have any tests been conducted to confirm that these time turners are safe?" Harry asked.

"Well, sort of," Epoch said. Harry glared at him, demanding another answer. "No, we have not specifically done tests with these time turners. I am fully confident that they are safe, because neither of you are dead, nor am I."

"But you don't know?" Harry asked. "How in the world could you let us use these without knowing if they're safe?"

"We designed them exactly like the old time turners, and we never had problems with those. You know, 'Time Turners by Kruntz, very helpful you see, use them once but not more than three'. It's how we've always used them."

"I cannot believe that you've been basing your safety precautions for brand new untested time turners on a three-hundred year old advertising slogan," Hermione said. Harry had never seen her as furious as she was then, even when Malfoy called her a mudblood. "First of all, you are not Nicholas Kruntz. Second, these are not your time turners. Third, being a man of science, you cannot put others at risk for your scientific or personal gain. Fourth, I trusted you! You let me down, Professor. You've let all of us down."

"Listen to me, all of you," Epoch said. "I wish I could tell you how I know that these time turners are safe. I really wish I could, but I can't. Trust me when I say that I'd never put you in harm's way."

"I cannot do that, Professor," Hermione said. "I don't know whether to trust you—"

"—Hermione," Harry said, stopping her mid-argument. "We can discuss this another time. Our main priority should be to try and find the thief. We'll use the hair like we planned, and if we can identify the thief, we'll follow that lead. If not, we'll find another way. We can discuss this safety issue more at length later. Is that all right?" Hermione was reluctant to agree, but did so anyway.

Harry slipped the hair into the Polyjuice Potion where it dissolved in the liquid. He took a long and disgusting swig of the potion and swallowed. Breasts began to sprout from his chest and he felt his hair grow longer amidst other shifts across his body. When it stopped, he looked at his hands. They were a greenish shade of gray and Harry imagined that he must have looked very odd to his friends.

"Well, what do I look like?" Harry asked.

"You look like an old woman, Harry," Ron said and he giggled under his breath

"That's not funny, Ron!" Harry said. He stared down at his cleavage in a curious embarrassment, finding it insulting that Ron was laughing at them. "I thought we were looking for a man though?"

"An old maid, that's for sure," Ron said, "you're probably too old for even your grandchildren to recognize you."

"I'm not so sure, Ronald," Hermione said. She stepped closer to Harry and peered at his face, examining the smallest details like a building inspector looking for the cause of a leak in the roof. "I've got it. I know who you are."

"You do?" Ron asked. "How could you possibly distinguish a person out of that glob of dropping flesh?"

"Well it's difficult to be one-hundred percent sure," Hermione said, "but I think I know. For me, it's the snake eyes and the curling shape of the mouth that give it away, and the way you described the hair when you first found it makes me certain of who this is. The thief is none other than Rita Skeeter."

Professor Epoch and Hermione returned to the Department of Mysteries to continue their research while Ron led Harry as the aged Rita Skeeter into the Head Auror's office. Isgar jumped in his seat when he saw Ron standing next to a wretched old witch, but he recovered and resumed his normal composure.

"What is this, Weasly?" Isgar said pointing to Harry. "Why is this old woman standing in my office?"

"It's me, sir, Harry Potter," Harry said. His voice coming from Rita Skeeter's body was another shock entirely and caused Isgar to spill his cup of coffee down his robes. "I've brought you a new lead in the time turner case."

"Polyjuice Potion? Gosh, what in the world did you put in that?" Isgar asked. "And who put you on the time turner case? Last I checked we were only utilizing experienced Aurors."

"Experienced or no, we found something; a strand of hair by a time vortexes that the ADS discovered in the Ministry, and we put it into Polyjuice Potion," Harry said. He did not want to reveal the full extent of their previous investigations, so he left the details murky. "I came out like this, and we're sure that the thief is Rita Skeeter."

"The Daily Prophet columnist?" Isgar asked. It was clear that he did not believe their story. "It can't be her. She's not nearly as, well, elderly as you look now."

"We talked with Professor Epoch from the Department of Mysteries, and he believes that the hair aged when it came back through time, which caused Rita Skeeter's body to age when we put the hair into Polyjuice Potion."

"This is mere conjecture. You can't know for sure that wretched thing is Rita Skeeter. It could be anyone's hair, and at that age, I'm sure a lot of people might look like Rita Skeeter. And if we're wrong—"

"—Well what if we are wrong?" Ron asked, cutting Isgar off. "What's the worst that could happen if we investigate her and we're wrong?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Weasley, but I'll try to get this through your skull," Isgar said. "Rita Skeeter has been bombarding this office left and right with negative press and clearly wants us out of the way so that the ADS can put all of us out of a job. It's a scoop for her, and if we start investigating her, that's only more red meat for her readers, especially if we're wrong. I'd rather she try to salvage fumes off of the bones of this department than have a brand new story to spin."

"Then let us take the investigation," Harry said. "We'll be discreet and at the worst, you can just deny that we had anything to do with it. Blame it on the Department of Mysteries."

"That's out of the question. Both of you are dismissed," Isgar said and Harry's soul plummeted as another opportunity to prove himself flew out the window. But then a flicker of hope came back as Isgar cracked a sly smile. The Head Auror removed his wand from his desk and pointed it into the air. "_Obfusco_."

Isgar's spell filled the room with the crackling of static, and he motioned Harry and Ron closer to his desk. "Consider this your first real assignment boys," Isgar said. Harry and Ron broke into wide open-mouthed gasps of excitement. Finally, they could show the Aurors that they were more than celebrity spectacles. "Thank you," Ron said. "We won't let you down."

"I'm sure you will," Isgar said with a smirk. "But that's not for me to worry about because this conversation never happened. Take the weekend of Christmas to prepare, and do so with diligence and care, because you start Monday."

Harry nodded in acceptance and walked out of Isgar's office. Whether Isgar thought they could do it or not, Harry was determined to catch Rita Skeeter in the act and bring her to justice.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be used for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 12:**** The Importance of Family**

On Christmas morning, Melissa woke up to the smooth hooting of an owl at her window. It was bright and early in the morning, and Melissa tried to roll over and go back to sleep. The owl was persistent though, and tapped its beak against her window with the speed and ferocity of a woodpecker. It would be futile to try and sleep though the racket, so Melissa sat up in her bed and extended a sleepy, limp arm open the window. When she was done fumbling around with the latch, the owl flew into her room and landed in front of her on her bed. It was the gorgeous Tawny owl from Eyelop's and it held in its claws, a copy of the quibbler, and a small jingling bag of money with a note.

She turned first to the note, untying it from the owl's leg. It read: "To my new friend, Melissa Skeeter. I knew in an instant that this piece was yours and it gave me great pleasure to award you second prize in our annual poetry contest at the Quibbler, despite your late entry. Bravo!" The note was signed by Xenophilious Lovegood.

Melissa scrambled to take the Quibbler from the owl's talons and she flipped it open to the contest section. There it was, sitting at the top of the poetry section. Day by Day had made it into print. She let the paper drop from her hands onto the bed as a raging river of positive emotion flooded the banks of her body. The moment was surreal, and she had to double check the paper to make sure that she had not imagined the whole thing. Sure enough, the byline on her poem read: Melissa Skeeter. She could not have asked for a better Christmas present.

The owl rattled the money sack tied to its leg to remind Melissa that she had still not accepted all of her mail yet. She removed the sack on his leg and turned it upside down, spilling five galleons onto her sheets; the prize money for the contest. The owl careened its neck as if to ask if she had a reply that she wanted it to deliver. Melissa went to her desk and scrawled out a quick thank-you to Mr. Lovegood. She tied it to the owl's leg and sent it off, watching it fly into the morning sun.

It had snowed the past night and Christmas had dropped a blanket of white joy onto the streets below her third floor apartment. A group of Muggle children were playing in the street building a snowman. They had two massive balls of packed snow already on top of each other. Two boys were decorating the man's chest with black buttons while a girl was rolling a third ball of snow in the street. When she finished, she plopped the head onto the body and stuck a carrot right in the middle. The children laughed their innocence to the wind until their mother called them inside to open presents from Father Christmas. Then Melissa remembered that she had her own work to do.

She took a quick shower and then dressed herself in warm layers for the cold of the English winter: two sweaters over her robes, an overcoat and warm, fuzzy boots. She gathered a group of parcels lying on her kitchen countertop and rushed to Diagon Alley, not even bothering to lock her door behind her.

She waded through the bustling crowds of witches and wizards in the streets and made her way to Eyelop's, where Duncan was outside tending to his owls. She unwrapped an owl patterned scarf from her first package, snuck up behind him and then wrapped it around his neck. He was startled by the warmth around his neck and her sudden appearance, and began screaming with joy when he realized who it was.

"Happy Christmas, Melissa," Duncan said. "Is this scarf for me? It's lovely, and it matches my snowy owls."

"Yes it is, Duncan, and I'm glad you like it," Melissa said, delighted by the grin on the old man's face. "Happy Christmas to you as well. Is Angelo inside?"

"Yes, well, I suppose he is," Duncan said, trying in vain to spot him through the snow covered windows of the store. "He should be. Why do you ask?"

"I've got a present for him too," Melissa said with a wink, which threw Duncan off guard even more that the surprise of the scarf.

"Well I'll be," Duncan said as he followed Melissa inside.

She found Angelo in his quarters boiling a pot of coffee. He seemed taller than she remembered, and as she watched him stir the coffee grounds into the water, she noticed the subtle tones of his arm as it circled back and forth, churning the bubbling liquid. The thin jacket that he was wearing was looked flimsy and was barely warm enough for the winter air, let alone the Christmas snow. She wished that she had thought to get him a new coat as well as her other gift.

"Happy Christmas, Angelo," she said and smiled to him from the doorway.

Angelo knew it was Melissa by the sound of her voice and turned to face her. He seemed surprised that she had come, but he greeted her with a hug as if she were an old friend. "And Happy Christmas to you, Melissa. Those can't all be for me I imagine." he said, referring to the parcels she was carrying.

"Well, no," Melissa said, and placed the gifts on the table. "The top one is for you, and the other two are for my mother."

"The horrible mother you were crying to me about a few nights ago?" Angelo said as he began to unwrap his present.

"Yes, that mother," Melissa said. "My only mother. The least I can do is try to make peace with her."

"If you think you two can reconcile your differences then more power to you, but personally I think that you're making a mistake," he said. He was about to continue, but he stopped when he saw what was buried beneath the wrapping. A wide grin spread across his face and he laughed to himself as he held his present in his hands, coddling it like fragile newborn. "You got me a matching bed set. I must say that was very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Melissa."

"They also match the blanket that you already had so that you can cuddle up at night and be warm in style," Melissa said. Angelo chuckled at her joke and then carried his new sheets over to his bed, holding them close while he walked, as if he were worried that someone might snatch them from his hands.

"I suppose you have somewhere you need to be going then?" Angelo asked, motioning to the gifts for Melissa's mother.

"Yes, I do," Melissa said and reached down to the table to collect the presents. She was reluctant to leave and wished that he had asked her to stay for coffee. Afraid of imposing herself on him, she stepped out into the shop where Duncan stood at the register. It appeared as though he had been watching them, but he quickly shifted his attention back to the register to try and avoid her notice. She wondered what he thought about her indulgence of the squib. Duncan had said that he did not like Angelo, yet he kept him around for the quality of his work. That sort of professional relationship meant that Duncan had at least some respect for the man. And as long as Angelo was kind to her, she imagined that Duncan would have no objections to his assistant spending time with her. After all, it would have been her choice, and he would have understood.

"Melissa," Angelo said from his room, "would you have time to stay for coffee?" Melissa's jaw fell halfway to the floor as she tried to stammer a response. Excitement screamed through her bloodstream and her heart began to pump twice as fast to compensate for the overflow.

"I think that I might have some time that I can spend," Melissa said, then she hurried to clarify, "with you, I mean. It might be nice."

It was midday by the time Melissa left Eyelops. She made her way to the outskirts of London where her mother lived in a large town home in the middle of a wizarding suburb. The house was the same one that Melissa had grown up in, and she had lived there until she was sent to Beauxbatons. She would return there every year for Christmas and during the summer holiday, but for the majority of the year, her mother would keep the place to herself. The house maintained a small, but imposing façade of arched windows and curved overhangs. Diminutive, feminine balconies dotted the upper floor, but were counterbalanced by their wrought iron bars that curved out to the road like spear points. In her mind, it was home.

Melissa knocked three times on her mother's door, and then again, louder when nobody answered. She peered through the windows and saw nothing save for narrow hallways and an empty parlor room.

"Hold on a minute," said her mother. It sounded like her voice was coming from the kitchen. A frazzled and dazed Rita Skeeter cracked the door open just an inch and peeked outside to see who it was. "Oh, it's you." Rita invited her daughter inside and led her into the kitchen. Her mother had been making lunch and the room smelled of burnt chicken.

"Should you get that out of the oven, mother?" Melissa asked.

"I would have, but I had to open the door for you, dear," Rita said as she flicked her wand to turn of the oven and remove a charred half chicken to a cutting board. She cut the chicken into four uneven pieces and placed them on a platter. "Would you like any chicken, or have you eaten already?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Melissa said, trying not to cough up the smoke. She noticed a cauldron on the stove filled with a gooey, bubbling brown liquid that almost had the consistency of a thick potion. The burnt chicken and smoke made it difficult to distinguish smells, but the bubbling cauldron seemed to be emitting a repulsive stench. "I assume that's not the caramel that you used to make when I was little?"

Rita's eyes bugged with alarm when Melissa took a spoon from the drawer and moved to dip it into the cauldron on the stove. "Don't do that!" Rita said. She grabbed a pot lid from her cabinets and covered the cauldron.

"What is it?" Melissa asked as Rita turned down the heat on the burner.

"Just an experiment," Rita said. She grabbed the leg of the chicken and bit into it, ripping the burnt flesh from the bone. "Let's go into the parlor room so we can talk."

Melissa did as her mother asked, and took a seat on a large fluffy sofa, placing the gifts that she had wrapped for her mother on top of the coffee table.

"Are those gifts for me?" her mother asked.

"Yes, I picked them up yesterday," Melissa said. Rita simpered and opened her presents: a new notebook and quill set, and pixie dust scented candle. "I wasn't sure what to get you. We haven't really had much time to talk since I came back from school."

"They're lovely," Rita said. "I have a present for you as well that I was going to give you on Monday during work. It's upstairs, so give me a second to get it." Her mother again produced her wand and flicked it at the ceiling above her. Moments later, a perfect, gift wrapped box floated down the stairs and into the parlor room and landed in Melissa's lap. She removed the wrapping paper and bow to find a box of expensive perfumes; her mother's favorite fragrances.

"Thank you, Mother," Melissa said and she set the box of perfumes aside. "They're lovely."

"Aren't you going to smell them?" Rita asked.

"I already know what they smell like," Melissa said. "You got me the same set last year."

"Did I?" Rita asked and assembled a fake smile. "Well, only the best for my daughter. Trust me; one squeeze of any of those and you'll have all of the boys spellbound."

"Mother, I don't need help getting boys. I'm not a little girl anymore."

"So you have a boyfriend then?" Rita's journalistic instincts were spot on, and Melissa had fallen for an age old trick.

"I didn't say that, mother," Melissa said. A month ago, Melissa would have appreciated any help from her mother on any matter, but now, it felt as though Rita was trying to pry into her life like a squirrel trying to dig an acorn out of the dirt. Maybe it seemed more invasive now because she had real secrets now.

"Deny what you will, Melissa, but I'm sure he's a charmer. I'm glad you like the fragrances though. They cost me a small fortune."

They sat in silence for a few moments, trading glances as if they were attempting to trade gossip telepathically. "Mother," Melissa said when it became clear that the conversation would not progress without a subtle push, "I've come to see if you won't reconsider coming to see the family tonight. They're coming around six o'clock, and it would mean a lot to them, and to me, if you were there."

"If that's what you've come to say, you're wasting your time." She used her wand to fetch herself another piece of chicken. "The answer is still no."

"But why? I don't understand your aversion to this party."

"Hold on, just one moment Melissa. I need to go stir my cauldron." Rita disappeared into the kitchen and Melissa knew that she was just stalling to avoid having to provide a real answer. Melissa assumed that her mother had her reasons for not attending, but she did not have to agree with them.

"I should be getting back home, mother," Melissa said. "I have to get my place set up for the party."

"Okay," Rita said from the kitchen. "It was nice seeing you on Christmas. Don't forget your perfumes."

Melissa took the box under her arm as she left. She spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for the party, peppering her apartment with decorative lights, streamers and mistletoe. The party went off without a hitch and Melissa enjoyed being with the family that she had missed for the past seven years of her life while she was in France. The party gave all of them a chance to catch up and reminisce about a past that seemed so distant that it might not have even existed. Melissa played the hostess well, engaging her guests in conversation and making sure the food and drink was endless, but there was one thing that she could not provide.

Everyone was asking her where her mother was, and why she could not come. Melissa was forced to keep making the same excuse, saying that her mother was working and out of town. She hated the idea of lying to her guests and especially her family, but telling them the truth would have been worse. Throughout the party, she was distracted every time she heard a noise in the hallway outside. Then she would begin to hope that the noise would be followed by a knock on her door, and that it her mother would enter and save her from her duties and lies. But her mother came, and the door remained closed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be used for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 13: Family Feud**

The Burrow had been Harry's second home for the past seven years, but when he returned there on Christmas Day with Ron, Hermione and Ginny it felt as though he was stepping onto foreign soil. The four of them had planned to stay the weekend before returning to the gruel of working life on Monday. When they arrived, Mrs. Weasley suffocated Ron and Hermione in her arms, welcoming them with kisses and tears of glee. Ginny, on the other hand, was given a colder reception consisting of a smile and a nervous hug, and it was obvious that Mrs. Weasley still resented her daughter's decision to move in with Harry.

This put Harry in a peculiar situation. Was he Ron's friend or Ginny's lover? Mrs. Weasley appeared as uncertain of the answer as Harry was, and she embraced him just as she had Ron, but Harry sensed uncertainty and pause in the weakness of her limbs and the infirmity of her poise. Mr. Weasley was more inviting, and he shook Harry's hand with pride as he always had.

Before Mrs. Weasley could voice an opinion on the matter of sharing sleeping spaces, Ginny whisked Harry into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She thrust their bags onto the bed and told Harry to begin unpacking.

"But what if your mum doesn't want the two of us sleeping in the same room?" Harry asked as he slipped his clothes into Ginny's bottom drawer. "She made Bill and Fleur sleep in separate rooms until they were married."

"Mum didn't like Fleur, and that's why she stuck Phlegm in here with me," Ginny said as she stowed Harry's bag under her bed, "but they like you just fine."

"Don't you think we should ask your mother first before we just settle in together?"

"I don't know why we need to. It's my room regardless, and I say what goes." She unpacked her clothes and stuffed them into her remaining drawers. "Besides, we sleep in the same bed every night. She knows that, and she'll just have to live with it."

"I don't like it is all," Harry said as he peered out the window into the orchard. Mrs. Weasley had been growing white roses, but he noticed that mistletoe had become ingrown on the vines of the rose plants, sucking the nutrients from the pure flowers. "I think she should get a say on what happens in her own home."

"It doesn't matter what you think, because this is my room," Ginny said and gave Harry a light purse on the lips. "I say what goes, and I say you're in here with me. Understood?"

A slight rapping came from the door and Ginny swung it open and prepared to face her mother. She sighed with relief when she saw that it was her father, and led happily him in.

"Harry, I'm glad the two of you could make it for Christmas," Mr. Weasley said and shook Harry's hand again. He seemed to be unbothered by Harry's presence in her room and was even glad, eager in fact, that they were staying together. "It's good to see you're already settling in with us. You will always be welcome here."

"See?" Ginny said to Harry as Mr. Weasley embraced her.

"By the way," Mr. Weasley said to Ginny, "your mother wanted to see you in the kitchen. Why don't you help her with dinner while you're there?"

Ginny huffed in frustration, but acceded to his instruction and stomped out of the room toward the kitchen.

"I hear you've settled into a nice apartment in London, Harry," Mr. Weasley said. Harry thought that if Mr. Weasley was attempting to create conversation, he could not have chosen a more awkward way to begin, but Mr. Weasley always was a little awkward.

"Yes, it's a nice place I suppose," Harry said. "I'm very happy there."

"It's always important to be happy where you live," Mr. Weasley said. "Do you see yourself settling down somewhere eventually? Maybe in a house? Or a cottage? Or something more permanent?"

"Eventually, I'm sure," Harry said. "I haven't really thought about it."

"And how are you doing in your job? It's a sad thing that the Aurors are getting dragged down by this time turner business, but from what I've heard, and read in memos, the folks at the Alpha Detective Squad are doing great things."

"I don't really know much about them, just that I've been stealing our funding and snatching the most important cases out from under us. Why do you ask?"

"To be honest, Harry, I'm worried about the future of the Aurors at the Ministry." Mr. Weasley leaned up against a wall and paused as if to compose his thoughts. "While it is sad that the Aurors are going under, we all have to accept that times change. Some branches of the Ministry will survive and others won't. Have you considered applying for the ADS? The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a fair man, and I'm sure if you asked to switch departments, he would be eager to take you up on the offer."

"Personally sir, I don't very much like the ADS, and I'd much rather go down with the Aurors than compromise."

"Admirable as that may be, Harry, you have your future to consider, and possibly Ginny's too." Mr. Weasley said and his intent became clear to Harry.

"We can't just give up on the Aurors," Harry said, trying to reason with Mr. Weasley, but Ginny's father simply shook his head in disappointment. "It's like with Voldemort. You and Mrs. Weasley fought him, and your children did as well. We were all in mortal danger and we probably weren't going to succeed, but we did. The Order of the Phoenix won. If we had all just walked away from the challenge and thought about what was the safest course of action we would be living in a very different world."

"The situation is different, Harry. We aren't talking about a mass murderer who wanted to enact a totalitarian regime; we're talking about something as simple as Ministry restructuring. With things like this, it is best to go with the flow. For your sake, for your future, Harry, please, just consider it. Will you do that for me?"

Harry nodded in agreement, but both of them knew that there was no chance that Harry would abandon the Aurors. Mr. Weasley left the room and Harry collapsed onto Ginny's bed. The solitude forced him into pondering what Mr. Weasley had said.

That evening, the entire Weasley family gathered to toast the holiday and feast to their heart's content around a table so long that it could have been stolen from the last supper. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sat at one end of the table with Fleur and Bill opposite them. Ron sat next to his mother with Hermione by George and Charlie. Percy brought a rather uptight woman named Audrey with him to dinner that no one in the family had ever heard of before.

Mrs. Weasley and Ginny had prepared a grand fare of herb fried turkey, honey glazed baked ham and assorted side dishes, all of which was dwarfed by entire roasted pig that was sitting on a spit in the middle of the table.

Bill was the talk of the table, as he had been promoted to a prestigious management position in Gringots; apparently he had only been the third non-goblin to attain such a high position with the bank. Charlie was all dragons, which was no surprise, and Percy was all work, which was also expected.

Hermione's eighth year at Hogwarts was the cause of a small debate between George and Percy on the merits of educational benefit, but her position as an intern in the Department of Mysteries was of particular interest and carried an inherent element of mystique which raised the curiosity of everyone at the table.

"So what is it that you do in the Department of Mysteries, Hermione?" Bill asked.

"I'm afraid I can't talk about it," Hermione answered. "It's secret."

"Are you an unspeakable?" George asked. It was obvious by his trademark smirk that he already knew the answer, but was just trying to box her into a corner.

"Well, I'm just an intern," Hermione said. She shifted her eyes to Harry asking for help, but he did not know what to tell her. "I guess it's still secret though."

"Come on, you can tell us," George said. "We won't tell anyone."

"I wouldn't recommend it," Percy said in an attempt to infiltrate the conversation. "Hermione could be fired."

"Did you sign a non-disclosure agreement?" George asked.

"No," Hermione answered.

"Did they make you sign anything like," George said and thought for a moment before finishing, "a contract?"

"No." Hermione's answer was the same.

"Did you sign a waiver?"

"No."

"Did they warn you not to talk to us?"

"Not exactly."

"What's stopping you from telling us?"

"Legally, it doesn't sound like she's bound to any secrecy," Percy's girlfriend said, but no one seemed to hear her except Percy who spun his attention over to silence her.

"Fine, despite my better judgment, I'll tell you," Hermione said and everyone eased in closer to listen, as if the silence of the room would deafen the sound of her voice. "I've been working with Professor Epoch on the time turner project."

"Are you really working directly for Professor Epoch?" Percy asked. "That's a big accomplishment. It's great experience for your resume."

"Epoch is a curious man," Mr. Weasley said. "I ran into him once in a meeting recently. He's about the same age as Molly and I, but you'd never know. He looks like a relic directly from ancient history. I asked him if he'd gone to Hogwarts, and he more or less dodged the question. I looked into the school records around the time that Molly and I were there and I found no record of him."

"That's very strange indeed," Hermione said. "Maybe he is older than we all think."

"You would think so, but his face is younger than mine," Mr. Weasley said. "The only thing about him is his hair makes him look older than Dumbledore."

"He is a very odd man," Hermione said, "but, there's no questioning his intelligence. He's brilliant. His accomplishments of course show that. He's the first man ever to successfully replicate the magic in the original time turners since Nicholas Kruntz, the original inventor. Kruntz left behind no blueprints, or even any notes on the time turners, yet Epoch has been able to reverse engineer them from scratch with literally nothing to go on except the broken scrap heap of the original time turners."

"It's indeed very impressive for sure," Mr. Weasley said. "Mysterious though."

The Weasley's ate as if they had been starved for years, and by the end of dinner, they had gone through the entire ham, and the turkey had been reduced to bones. The pig was still intact, but most of the juicy belly meat had been devoured and what remained would barely hold for lunch the following day.

After dinner, Mrs. Weasley herded the women into the kitchen along with Bill to assist in gathering the mass of dirty dishes so that they could be magically cleaned throughout the night. Then the family gathered in the living room by the warmth of the fireplace to open the mountain of presents under Christmas tree. Everyone received the traditional Weasley Christmas sweater as well as a discount book for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, courtesy of George. Harry got a wizard's chess board sculpted out of chocolate from Ron and Hermione, a scarf from Bill and Fleur, and season tickets to the Holyhead Harpies game from Ginny, presumably courtesy of Gwenog Jones. The family was admiring a tempered wooden hunting spear that Fleur had gotten for Bill when Hermione shrieked horror, startling the entire room.

She had just opened a small, wrapped box that did not appear to have anyone's name to it save for her own, but it was obvious who it had come from. Ron was kneeling in front of her, staring into her teary eyes. His hands were wrapped around hers and the box which held a small, but glistening diamond ring.

"Hermione, I was wondering if you might want to, you know," Ron said. He sounded stupid with anticipation, but he appeared noble and true nonetheless. "Do you think you might have any interest in marrying a dumb git like me?"

Hermione remained silent and stared at the ring. Tears were streaming from her eyes, the droplets of water popping on her green skirt, leaving minute blotches of water and salt. Then she realized that the entire room was watching her, waiting for her decision. She squeezed her eyes shut, expunging the last of the tears, and then took her arm and wiped them away, smearing black streaks across her face. Then she slowly began to nod.

"Yes, I think," Hermione said. "This is really sudden, but yes."

She kissed him and they held each other in bliss as the Weasley family burst into cacophonous applause and hurrah.

"Congratulations to Ron and Hermione," Mr. Weasley said, beaming with pride in his son. "Molly, find the champagne and Percy and George, fetch some glasses. This has just become an engagement party!"

The rest of the presents were opened with an enhanced sense of cheer, and the party carried itself long into the night. Ten bottles of Champagne, three carafes of wine and two full containers of ale later, George was asleep on the floor next to Charlie and Fleur who were drunk beyond help, staring out the window at Bill and cracking up as the eldest Weasley swooned around in the yard and howled at the crescent moon. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had gone to bed and Percy, who had not been drinking, was forced to carry his companion home. They had left without a word of goodbye.

Ron and Hermione had retired to who knew where, and Harry was alone on the couch, mostly sober, sipping on a half empty pint of ale. Ginny emerged from the downstairs bathroom with a small dribble of vomit hanging from her chin and staggered over to Harry and plopped herself down beside him.

"Quite a party, yeah, Harry?" Ginny asked and wiped her puke away. She took Harry's ale from his hand and washed it down her throat in one massive gulp, spilling alcohol out the sides of the tankard and down her shirt. "Damn it, I've gotten myself all wet. Sorry, that was a bad joke. I couldn't help myself. So did you know that all of that was going to happen?"

"That what was going to happen?" Harry asked.

"Did you know that my idiot brother was going to purpose tonight?" Ginny asked and then laughed. "Sorry, I said purpose, but meant porpoise. I'm so drunk right now, it's not even funny. Actually, it probably is funny, but don't laugh or I'll jinx you."

"I hadn't noticed anything," Harry said. Ginny began licking the side of his neck and he tried to careen his head away from the stench of foul alcohol. "Hermione seemed really happy about it though."

"I bet Hermione was happy about it," Ginny said. She put her hand on the back of Harry's head and cranked it over to hers. She folded her lips over his and began to suck, but stopped when he did not reciprocate. "I bet Hermione's getting real happy with Ron right now. Why aren't you making me happy right now? Huh? Never mind, don't talk just come and make me happy."

Ginny staggered off of the sofa, and yanked Harry by the arm into her bedroom. She slammed the door behind her and shoved him onto the bed. She crawled on top of him and tried to kiss him, but instead, her tongue wiped slobber across Harry's face.

"Don't you want me Harry?" Ginny said and loosened the buttons on her top. Harry tried to stop her and re-fastened the bottom two buttons, but Ginny slapped his hand away. She stared at him with hurt eyes like a scolded puppy that had just been kicked away from its favorite bitch.

"Ginny, no," Harry said, "we're in your parent's house and you're drunk. Just no, let's go to bed."

"If I said I wasn't drunk would you fuck me?"

"No, no, Ginny, not tonight. It's wrong."

Ginny slapped him across the face and took her wand out and aimed it at the lamp on her dresser. "_Reducto!_" She missed, and instead shattered a small vase of flowers that sat next to it.

"Ginny, what the hell are you doing, stop it!" He tried to get the wand away from her, but failed until she had the chance to try again. Her curse hit the lamp and its molecules began to melt away, spilling electric goo onto the floor. The room was dark and Harry was able to wrest the wand away from Ginny. He threw it into a corner of the room and sat against the headboard, relieved she had not caused any more damage.

"Fine, you're on your own tonight," Ginny said as she ripped her pants off and dropped them onto the floor.

Harry tried to go to sleep, but the persistent wet globbing of her finger kept him awake, and he wished he had just had sex with her. The sound of a low whine dissipated throughout the room as found her own gooey pleasure for what seemed like half an hour. He folded his pillow around his ears and tried in vain to sleep. He prayed for his dreams to take him away from her side and engulf him and protect him in their illusion, but they would not come until she had finished. When the silence returned, and her hurried breathing stopped, he sighed, and waited to descend into restless sleep.

They awoke to the sound of Mrs. Weasley calling breakfast. Ginny was the first to sit up in bed, and her messy hair fell over her face in knotted ropes as she stretched.

"It's morning already?" Ginny asked. She looked over at Harry, who was lying with his eyes half open on the edge of the bed. "Oh my god, Harry, I'm so sorry about last night."

"It's fine," he said as he sat of and fumbled for his glasses. "It's done. You were drunk and that was that."

"No, this is not okay, Harry. I'm so sorry, you have no idea," she said and put her arm around him in an attempt to re-ingratiate herself. He slipped out from under it and pulled his clothes out of her drawer.

"Breakfast smells great," Harry said as he dressed himself. "I think your mom has made us the last of the pig with some eggs. We shouldn't keep her waiting."

Ginny dressed herself and the two of them sat at the table with Mrs. Weasley and ate their eggs. Bill, Fleur and Charlie filed into the kitchen, followed by George and Mr. Weasley; most of them still hung over and groggy from the previous night's festivities. Ron and Hermione followed close behind, stumbling down the stairs from Ron's room and sat with the family to eat. Both of them wore guilty faces, which made it obvious how they had spent their night.

"Shame Percy couldn't stay for breakfast," Ron said. "His friend seemed nice." No one cared to conjure an awkward response, and instead they continued to eat with tense repose. Mrs. Weasley did not seem oblivious of the events that had occurred under her roof the previous night, but she said nothing, and instead let her children eat in peace.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be used for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 14: First Impressions**

After an entire week of investigation into Rita Skeeter, not even the slightest hint of evidence had been uncovered. In fact, because the assignment was unofficial it was very difficult if not impossible for Harry and Ron to make real progress. Discretion was of the utmost importance, and so they could not interview her, or the Prophet's Head Editor. Search warrants for her personal files and her home were unobtainable, and the only means of discovery that they had available was by covert means.

They had exhausted their leads and utilized every method of surveillance available to them. Extendable ears planted at her desk at the Prophet turned up nothing except for the scratching of her quill on parchment, and they had no means to access her home, which proved to be a minor fortress of protective charms and wards. They could have broken in if they had wanted to, but to do so would have been a massive undertaking, and they were not ready to take such a drastic measure without more evidence. Books of Daily Prophet articles that had been written by her revealed nothing except for a dislike of the Aurors. The only information that they could find was a confirmation from the Spanish embassy that Rita Skeeter had never visited the ambassador, or stepped foot in his office; and that information only hurt their case.

Harry had tried to tail Rita Skeeter three times with the invisibility cloak, but she had evaded them each time. Every time he lost her, it seemed as though she had vanished or turned to dust. He was careful to watch for beetles in case she had morphed into her animagus form, and checked each time for use of the time turner; both searches proved fruitless each time. How she had been disappearing was a new mystery to him. Harry tried one more time to tail her through Diagon Alley as she left work on the Friday after Christmas, but he lost her in the crowd.

Another opportunity presented itself though. At first, he thought that he had found Rita Skeeter again, but he soon realized that it was not her, but her younger doppelganger. He had seen the younger Skeeter once before at the first public demonstration of the time turners, but he had forgotten about her uncanny resemblance to Rita until now. It was then that a new possibility occurred to him: what if he was investigating the wrong Skeeter?

Harry followed Rita Skeeter's daughter into Eyelop's Owl Emporium. The smell of owl droppings flooded his senses as he entered and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the lighting. The younger Skeeter had been talking with the old shopkeeper by the register, but Harry had interrupted them. The old man glared at Harry as he entered, and Rita's daughter did not seem to know what to think. Regardless, Harry felt unwelcome.

"Sorry, but you're going to have to come back tomorrow, sir," the shopkeeper said. "We appreciate your business but we've closed five minutes ago."

"I'm not here looking for an owl, actually," Harry said to the shopkeeper. "I was wondering if I could have a word with the young lady."

"Sir, we're closed," a fierce voice said from the shadows and a tall specter of a man emerged from the depths of the shop. He was dressed in grimy work clothes and wore heavy gloves for handling the owls, which added gruff to his already intimidating stature.

"Angelo, Duncan, it's all right," the younger Skeeter said. "If the man wants to talk to me, we can go outside."

"It's much too cold outside, Melissa," the shopkeeper said and turned to his register. "Use Angelo's room instead. I'm sure he won't object, right Angelo?"

"Sure," the tall man said. There was a disagreeable scorn in the man's voice that made his objections clear enough. The man said nothing more; however, and he must have known the futility of a clash with his employer that.

"No, Duncan it's fine," Melissa said. "You worry too much. It's not as cold today as it has been, and I can't imagine we'll be very long."

Before the shopkeeper could protest further, Melissa Skeeter had buttoned up her coat and opened the shop door. She led Harry outside into the cold and then gasped as she realized who he was.

"Oh, you're Harry Potter, aren't you," she said and extended a gloved hand toward him; her right hand. "It really is a pleasure to meet you."

"Melissa Skeeter, is it?" Harry asked. He shook her hand, taking careful note of her wrist. There was no time turner attached to it. He considered the possibility that she was not wearing it at the time, but he wanted check her left wrist. He decided to keep an eye out for an opportunity to do so without it seeming invasive. "I have to say that you look a lot like your mother, Rita."

"Thank you," Melissa said and smiled. "I think my mother is rather beautiful, so I appreciate your saying so. Anyway, what can I do for you, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I saw you in the streets and I thought I'd introduce myself," Harry said, trying to think of a way to steer the conversation in a direction that might advance his investigation. "I've read your articles and they're very good. In particular, I think that the sources you use are amazing. How do you find such detailed accounts of the subjects you write on?"

"You're all compliments, aren't you Mr. Potter. Can I call you, Harry?" Melissa asked and Harry nodded his tacit permission. "Well, Harry, I select my sources carefully and offer guarantees of anonymity so that they can be sure they won't face repercussions for speaking to me. After all, the nature of many of the columns that I write is such that my sources could very well be in danger for leaking information to me."

"I can understand that," Harry said. Her explanation seemed plausible, but generic and it almost seemed rehearsed. "Obviously I would not expect you to reveal everything about your sources. I was merely curious."

"Am I under investigation?" Her straightforwardness caught him off guard and he was unsure how to respond to it.

"Investigation?" Harry tried to play dumb, but Melissa saw right through him. Her eyes hardened against him as he tried to stammer his way back into civil conversation. "What do you mean by that?"

"You are an Auror, yes, Harry? Why else would you be questioning me about my sources? If there is an article that I wrote that you have questions about, ask me directly, but I can't just give you my sources. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes, I understand the need for secrecy on occasion. I don't have any specific questions for you at this time. But I swear you aren't under investigation. I was merely curious." Her eyes betrayed her doubts and Harry realized that he was not going to get anything out of her now.

"This is an investigation. You're making it as obvious as a giant in a crowd of Muggles. Unless I am being charged with something, I'd like to leave, sir." Melissa turned to walk back into the owl emporium.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Skeeter," Harry said. "Like I said, I'm an admirer and I hope that you keep writing quality articles."

Melissa stopped and stood with her feet cemented to the snow as if she was contemplating something; a consideration so deep that it drove her conscious mind from her body and into a sort of daydream. When she turned to face him, her rigid defensive posture had vanished and her eyes were lighter with something that seemed to resemble pride. "Look, I'm sorry. That was cold of me," she said. "If you have any specific questions about an article, you can come see me at the Prophet's offices sometime next week. I don't always use all of the information my sources give me and I might know something relevant to your investigation, whatever it is."

"Well thank you, I appreciate the offer," Harry said. "I very well might be in to see you next week to ask you some questions." He did not know if asking her about her articles would be very helpful at all, but he agreed to return her politeness.

Melissa smiled and opened the door to the owl emporium. Harry raised his left hand to wave good-bye, and she did as well. Her left sleeve dropped just below her wrist, confirming that she was not currently wearing a time turner. On the other hand, the facts of the case still pointed to her. She was a reporter for the international column, and would have more reason to break into the Spanish Ambassador's office than her mother if she was hunting for a scoop. The fact that she was not wearing the time turner was troubling; however, simply because it was such an important magical item. She would have wanted to keep it close, or she assumed it would be safer elsewhere.

He decided that he would discuss a plan with Ron after the weekend, but for the moment, he had to begin his commute home.

When Harry opened walked into his apartment, he took off his coat and draped it over the sofa, only to have Ginny come up behind him and throw it back on him.

"Ginny, what are—?"

"—Put it back on, Harry, or we're going to be late!" Ginny said and went over to the kitchen. Her high heels clacked across the floor as she walked. She grabbed a mint from the counter, tore the wrapping off and plopped it into her mouth. Then she pulled a tube of red lipstick out of her bag and began to smear it across her lips. "Come on, Harry, we don't have all night."

"What's going on, Ginny?" Harry asked as he put his coat back onto the couch.

"You forgot, didn't you," she said as she yanked the coat back off of the couch and threw it into Harry's arms. "I told you you'd forget. I told you so, but you didn't listen and write a note for yourself like I told you to. It's New Year's Eve and we're going out with Gwenog Jones tonight, remember?"

"Right, I remember." Harry had completely forgotten. He slipped his coat back on and stood by the door ready to leave. Ginny dropped the lipstick back into her back, walked up to him and pursed her lips. Even in her massive platform heels, she was still about an inch shorter than he was.

"How do I look?" Ginny asked. It was the death trap question. Had he been truthful, he would have said that her lipstick ran over her lips slightly, and that it looked like she was trying too hard to impress Gwenog in her shiny dress, leather jacket and massive heels, but instead he told her that she looked amazing, as that answer was the lesser of two evils.

The restaurant where Gwenog had chosen to dine was located on the thirty-first floor of a London skyscraper. To Muggle eye, it appeared like any other office space, drab and boring like those cluttered around it. The sign read Drewberry and Co., and it could have been any other Muggle insurance company or tax analyst. Passerby did not care. In reality, Drewberry and Co. was a trendy bistro that had made a name for itself by preparing world class cuisine with a modern English flair.

The dining room was decorated in a contrast of reds and whites, and terraced seating areas assured that every seat could take advantage of the view. Surrounding the restaurant's dining room were magnanimous plate glass windows that looked out onto the breathtaking scenery of the London skyline and the Themes. Along one of the side walls, the kitchen was visible through a series of windows where patrons could watch their food being prepared before their eyes with meticulous detail. Each chef was showing off a different unique technique for their audience, but even so, more skill and perfection went into their cooking than spectacle.

Harry and Ginny were met at the hostess stand by Katie Burr and her husband who introduced himself as Jim. Gwenog appeared to be running late, and when their reservation time came, Katie told the hostess to seat them anyway. Their waitress arrived seconds after they had been seated to collect drink orders, and the couples got to know each other.

Both Katie and Jim were younger wizards; neither of them was over twenty seven years of age. Jim worked for a small firm of private legal advocates for witches and wizards who thought they had been discriminated against in the work place. He had taken several cases before the Wizengamot and won several notable trials, including a few cases involving Muggle-born wizards and a squib. Wizarding lawyers had first been popularized in the United States where they ruled the wizard courts with an iron fist, but in England they were still a novel concept. While popularity was growing, Jim worked for only one of five firms in England that employed more than three lawyers.

Katie's story was less interesting. Like Ginny, she had tried out to play professional Quidditch the same year that she graduated from Hogwarts. She played first as a reserve chaser for the Appleby Arrows her first year on the field, only playing one game. That one game happened to be against the Harpies. Two years later, Gwenog Jones came to see her and made her an offer to play for the Harpies as a starter; an offer that Katie could not refuse.

"I'm glad to see that the four of you started without me," a familiar voice said from behind. It was Gwenog Jones. She had a skinny and timid man in tow that Harry assumed was Chandler, Gwenog's boyfriend. She never bothered to introduce him. As Gwenog took a seat at the table, Chandler hung close to her as if he were a child hiding from strangers behind his mother's leg, and Harry wondered how a woman like Gwenog Jones would ever fall for a man like that.

"Dare I ask what kept you, Gwenog, or do I even want to know?" Katie asked.

"You can ask," Gwenog said with a smile. She snapped her fingers in the air to summon the waitress, who arrived in an instant. "My companion and I will each have a Bavarian Starburst to drink along with two glasses of sparkling water, and if you could bring two orders of the pot stickers for the table."

The waitress disappeared into the kitchen and Gwenog turned back to her company. Her scarlet red dress broke just above her breasts and seemed to want to display a statement of her brazen femininity, but Harry was distracted by a mole that sat on the brim of her neckline. "I just wanted to say, Gwenog, thank you for inviting us to dinner with you," Ginny said with the same goggled eyes that she wore when she first met Harry. He used to be her mysterious celebrity, but now he was her normal mainstay.

"It's for my pleasure entirely," Gwenog said. "And don't any of you think about sneaking the bill. I've already prearranged with the manager to have it paid on my tab. I make more in a week than all of you combined make in a month, so let me be the generous one."

"Your gratuity never ceases to amaze," Katie said and raised her glass to Gwenog with a smirk. "If only everyone were as generous with their galleons as you, we might not have child poverty." Harry wondered how much less Katie was paid than Gwenog. Sure, Jones was the captain of the team and the celebrity player, but Katie was also integral to the performance of the team. As a chaser, she was matched by only a few in the British and Irish leagues and any team would be willing to pay a shiny sickle for her talents.

"Charity is not unheard of these days, but it is exceedingly rare. Very few real witches and wizards need charity, and those that do probably don't deserve it," Gwenog said.

"Not true," Jim said. "We get clients every day with worker discrimination cases. Some witches are living in destitute poverty because the work force is male dominated."

"You know I'm all for girl power, dear," Gwenog said to Jim, "but wage discrimination primarily occurs in lower wage jobs."

"I suppose," he said. "What's the connection?"

"As women, we can only prove that we are better than men by being better than men in every way," Gwenog said. "The woman you're referring to are a waste of fine feminine genes. If they couldn't take the time to learn a real skill to prove their worth in society, they should be destitute."

"I suppose we fundamentally disagree on who is deserving of assistance, Gwenog," Jim said as he retreated behind his beverage. The pot stickers arrived and he was the first to sample them. "Very good appetizer choice, Gwenog."

"Are the six of you ready to order dinner?" the waitress asked.

"Start over there," Gwenog said, pointing to Ginny. "I haven't looked at the menu yet."

"How is the bombarda chicken prepared?" Ginny asked.

"Take a guess," Gwenog said and laughed.

Ginny smiled and handed her menu to the waitress, "I think that sounds good."

"Would that be minima or maxima on the spice?" the waitress asked.

"She'll take the maxima. Get me the dragon pie, but hold the carrots, and Chandler here will be having the house salad; he needs to slim down." Gwenog said, and turned to Ginny. "Trust me on the spice level. You're a fiery girl, and I know you're going to love it."

"Would that be horntail or ridgeback meat in your pie, ma'am?" the waitress asked.

"Get me horntail meat," Gwenog said and handed her menu to Chandler. "I prefer it because it's got more flavor, even though it can be a little tougher. I don't mind fighting with my food."

The waitress turned to Harry who followed Chandler's lead, ordering a salad. Katie and her husband ordered Minotaur steaks and the waitress left the table to take the ticket to the kitchen.

"But if we help those in need, who's to say that one of them won't turn out to be the next Dumbledore," Harry asked, coming to Jim's rescue, "or for a female example, the next Rita Skeeter."

"I thought you hated Rita Skeeter, Harry," Ginny said. She was right, and as Harry thought about it, he could not figure out why he used Rita Skeeter as his example.

"Some may, but most won't," Gwenog said and took chunk out of one of the pot stickers. She chewed her food and swallowed before continuing her argument. "But a mere ten or fifteen percent of people with potential does not justify any sort of aid program or mass charity to the whole of the population, especially when the rest of that population won't effectively utilize the resources you've given them."

"And you don't feel bad for that ten or fifteen percent of people who will never have a chance?" Katie asked.

"Regardless of them, if you saw the destitution that some of these disenfranchised women have to live through day in and day out, I imagine you might change your mind," Jim said. It seemed that he had regained his confidence now that others were supporting his side of the argument.

"It's horrible, yes, the conditions that some people live in, but I have to agree with Gwenog," Ginny said, though Harry could not imagine that she actually believed that. "What do you think, Chandler? You've been rather quiet tonight."

"Well, I suppose, I, uh, agree with you and Gwenog," Chandler said, stammering over his words. He looked surprised that his opinion was even paid notice to.

"Katie, I understand if you and your husband wish to try in vain to help the helpless. That's your prerogative," Gwenog said. "Just don't try to force me into feeling sorry for people I will never meet or care about. I'm paying for your dinner because I know and respect you, not because you need my help. There's a distinct difference."

With that, the conversation took a suicidal dive out the window and was replaced by small talk dispersed by nervous sips of water. After a while, a much awaited dinner arrived and everyone turned their attention to their plates. Harry's salad greens were the freshest he had ever had set on a plate in front of him and the vinaigrette was the perfect mix of sweet, sour, and tang. He devoured it until all that remained were a few loose leaves and a small streak of dressing.

Ginny on the other hand seemed to be having trouble with her chicken. She had cut the meat into thin strips that she ate one at a time with large forkfuls of rice. Harry asked her if it was okay, and she replied that it was, but he could guess her real opinion by the beads of sweat congealing across her forehead. She gave up half way through her plate.

"Is that all you're having, Ginny, love?" Gwenog asked from across the table. "It wasn't too spicy for you, was it?"

"No, I'm just saving room for dessert," Ginny said. She slid her napkin up to her face to wipe off the sweat, but also utilized it to secretly peel the last piece of chicken out of her mouth.

"I know the perfect place," Gwenog said.

"Why can't we have dessert here?" Harry asked.

"We could, Harry, but I know a better place," she said and finished a last bite of her dragon pie.

"I can't imagine how any place could be better than this one, but if you say it is, then let's go," Ginny said.

Once everyone had finished, Gwenog paid the tab and led the group outside. Katie and Jim made an excuse to leave, which left Harry alone with Gwenog and two yes-men. Gwenog seemed to enjoy playing the dominant alpha role and Harry was growing less fond of her by the moment. Harry only stayed for Ginny's sake. She was Gwenog's puppet and did everything her master asked or suggested, while basking in her supposed magnificence. If dinner was any indication, Gwenog was not so much concerned with Ginny's well-being as she was focused on having her own fun. This worried Harry and he wondered what strings the puppeteer planned to pull next.

Gwenog led them through the streets of London until they arrived at their mystery destination. They stood in front of a warehouse that had been converted into a Muggle nightclub called the Cupcake House. The steel paneling of the warehouse had been painted over with massive murals of cupcakes of all kinds with frothy looking frosting, and the large industrial windows sprayed multicolored strobe lights out onto the streets. Music was blaring from the entrance louder than Harry had ever imagined it could be played and the pounding of the base threatened to burst the lining of his ear drums, spilling blood and puss out onto the ground.

"Why are we here, Gwenog?" Harry said, trying to shout over the strength of the music.

"You've never been Muggle watching before?" Gwenog asked and Harry shook his head. He did not know what the term meant, but it was easy enough to assume. "You're in for a real treat. Muggles are filthy and insignificant creatures, but they sure know how to throw a party."

Gwenog led her three followers over to the entrance. A fat bouncer cut her off and extended his hand to collect the cover charge. Gwenog slid her arm around the bouncer and pulled her wand from the back of her pants. Harry thought that he saw her mouth the word '_Imperio_' but he could not be sure with all of the noise. The bouncer waved them into the club and Gwenog grabbed Ginny's hand, pulling her inside. Harry and Chandler followed them into a grotesque mass of Muggles grinding into each other on the dance floor. Many of them were topless under the flashing strobes and their movements seemed erratic like pigeons walking across hot gravel.

"Would you boys like cupcakes?" a voice said from behind them. Harry turned around to find himself face to face with two breasts bulging out of a small slit in a latex cooking apron. The cupcake women held a platter of chocolate and vanilla cupcakes all covered in the foamy fuzz from the murals that appeared to be icing. "It's five dollars for one."

"We'll take four," Gwenog said and flicked her wand at the stripper. "Your manager has the money."

The stripper handed them the cupcakes and strutted away through the crowd. "Gwenog, you can't do that to Muggles, it's against the law," Harry said.

"Who's going to stop me, the Aurors?" Gwenog said and laughed. "If you breathe a word of this to any of your superiors, I'll make sure Ginny is cut from the team. Just relax and try to have fun, you dull stiff."

Gwenog began to lick the icing off of the cupcake and Ginny and Chandler followed her lead. Harry put the cupcake to his nose, and it smelled of large doses of concentrated liquor. The icing covering the cupcake must have held no less than two shots of scotch and he also detected a slight hint of other, more nefarious substances. He began to eat it anyway, trying to ignore the heavy flavor of booze, but it was impossible and he decided to hold his cupcake until he could find somewhere to ditch it.

Ginny was first to finish hers and took Harry's from his hand and ate it as well. Harry stared at her, wanting to protest, but did not.

"What?" Ginny asked him. "I'm hungry, okay?" Harry nodded and she continued to stuff the cupcake through her lips.

Gwenog steered them over to the dance floor where she grabbed her partner by the waist and began to graze his body with her own; Ginny took the cue to do the same to Harry. She stared up at him with longing, stoned eyes as she straddled her curves up and down his chest. The heat of the room was intense and growing and Harry felt warm with the passion of the crowd around him and his girlfriend on him. She turned and began to grind along his nether regions; the peaks and troughs of her curves did sinful, pleasurable thing to his body and mind. She stretched her head upward to kiss Harry with an extreme ferocity that caught him. He wanted her tongue to curl around in his mouth forever, but the moment was broken. Gwenog had interceded and was making out with his girlfriend before his eyes while her arms were still wrapped around him. A deep chasm opened in his stomach, releasing a rush of fluids through his body and shaking his heart with their surge and waves.

Harry stopped dancing and stared at the scene; all of the passion and heat that had built up inside had evaporated. He turned to Chandler in horror, but he found that Gwenog's boyfriend was drooling with wistfulness and it was obvious that he wanted to join them. Ginny turned back toward Harry and gave him a small peck on the lips.

"What do you say the four of us get out of here?" Gwenog asked. "I've got a few rare bottles of champagne at my apartment, and we can give the New Year a banging send off, if you catch my meaning."

"That sounds like a great idea, Gwenog," Ginny said and smiled coyly. "Harry would love to come too."

"I would?" Harry asked. "No, I wouldn't. Thank you for the invitation, but I think Ginny and I should be leaving."

"I think Harry's a bit uncomfortable with the idea, Ginny, love," Gwenog said as she stroked his girlfriend's hair. "Is it Chandler? Bringing him might make things a little weird. In fact, I've decided; beat it, Chandler."

"But, but, I," Chandler said, "I want to come too!"

"Go home, Chandler, before I break your nose through to the other side of your face," Gwenog said and as commanded, her companion left in a mild hurry.

"So what are we going to do when we get to your apartment, Gwenog?" Ginny asked. Harry noticed that Gwenog had begun holding Ginny's hand. His girlfriend's hand! The thought of the union of their fingers, molding onto each other was too much for Harry to bear. He turned to leave.

"Come on, Ginny, let's go," Harry said. "We're leaving."

"We should tie him to my bed and do naughty things to him."

"Ginny, let's go," Harry said again.

"That sounds like fun. He likes it when I get on top of him."

"Ginny," Harry said, tugging at her free hand.

"He'd like two on top more than the one, and that would give us an open field to play on."

"Come on, Ginny!" Harry was getting desperate.

"Hold your broomstick, Harry. Let the beautiful woman finish deciding what naughty things they want to do to you," Ginny said.

"No!" Harry said. "I'm not going to Gwenog's apartment."

"Fine, have it your way," Gwenog said. "Ginny and I can go by ourselves. You should just disappear."

"Harry, come with us," Ginny said. It's gonna be fun and you'll enjoy it."

"No, Ginny," Harry said and grabbed her by the arm. "You're coming with me."

He tried to pull her away from Gwenog but she would not come. His girlfriend stood like a statue on the dance floor, immovable by brute force alone. She looked to Gwenog as if to ask her for permission to leave with Harry, but the alpha shook her head. "Harry, run along," Jones said. "I think Ginny wants to stay with me tonight."

Harry let go of Ginny's arm and it fell limp at her side. Gwenog lifted it up and began running her lips across Ginny's fingertips. Harry left them alone on the dance floor, apparating to his apartment as soon as he got outside. He wondered if stealing Ginny from him had been Gwenog's plan all along. It must have been. She knew there were alcohol and drugs in the cupcakes, she's the one who picked the club, and she's the one who kissed Ginny.

Harry burst into his apartment and smashed the first lamp he saw, sending pieces of ceramic flying into the floor. He went into the bedroom and watched with excitement as his hands sent Ginny's jewelry box tumbling to the ground as conspiracy theories flew through his head. Her clothes were next and he grabbed each of her favorite tops and ripped them apart, spreading threads of silk and cotton across the room. When he was through and the anger began to subside, he collapsed onto the bed and passed out.

Harry woke up in the morning to a mess of a room and a pain in his chest. The fact that Ginny was gone had settled as he slept, but he turned to her side of the bed anyway and hoped that she would be there, lying next to him. The bed was bare, and he saw only the hole in the sheets that he had torn the previous night.

As he got out of bed, he heard the tapping of an owl at his window. He let the bird in and untied the parcel it carried on its leg. In the parcel was a newsletter from the Holyhead Harpies for the team's season ticket holders. He laughed at the irony of the letter and took the insult in stride, before letting it settle on the injuries that the team had caused him. The newsletter contained the team's roster for the New Year and it announced that Ginny Weasley would be a starting chaser for the first game of the season, and would continue in that position for the foreseeable future. Harry crumpled up the newsletter and threw it at the open window, but he missed and the letter hit the sill, bouncing the paper back into the bedroom. Harry sighed, knowing that Ginny had gotten everything that she had ever dreamed of by leaving him with nothing.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter and all it's characters, ideas and places belong to JK Rowling.  
This fan fiction is copyrighted to ChaoticL. This fan fiction may not be reproduced under any circumstance except for personal or private use. It may not be used for profit or by any commercial entity. It may not be placed on any web site, magazine or otherwise distributed publicly without fully crediting its author. Use of this work in such a way is a violation of copyright and is strictly prohibited.

**Rating:**M (for later chapters)

**Summary:**As Harry and Ron, now working for the Ministry as Aurors, try to stop corruption in the Ministry of Magic, they find themselves at the center of an international wizarding conspiracy.

**Genre:** Adventure/Mystery

**Pairings:**All pairings are true to cannon

**Rules for Commenting:**Please post what you think and what you want, but refrain from derogatory remarks about me, the story or others who may have commented. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and I will make every effort to directly answer questions posed to me. That said, I will keep to a strict policy of non-disclosure regarding any spoilers.

**Chapter 15: ****The International Wizarding Conference**

Melissa awoke to the bright rays of the sun beaming down onto her face; the perfect beginning to a relaxing Sunday morning. The plan was simple. She would wake up, take her time getting ready, write for a while and then read poetry on her balcony for the rest of the afternoon. This had been her routine every Sunday for the past few Sundays that she could remember and it provided a calm solace before she returned to the grudge of the work week. She enjoyed writing for the Prophet, but the prospect that she would spend the next fifty years of her life doing so was frightening to her. It was as if her work was a void, sapping her creativity from the core and for no foreseeable purpose save to make money and attract fans she would never have the time to get to know.

After a lukewarm shower, Melissa sat down at her desk to work. She took a small brass key from her purse and slipped it through the key hole of the bottom drawer in her desk. The lock clicked and Melissa pulled the drawer open to reveal a stack of papers organized in folders labeled by subject and a small wooden box that contained her time turner. She removed the first folder on the stack, which contained her research on the Spanish Ambassador to Britain. Among other compiled documents was a letter addressing the British Prime Minister. She pulled parchment, quill and ink from her top desk drawer and began to write. Words and phrases poured from her body in angered rhythm as she penned a diatribe, badgering the Spanish Ambassador for planning a hasty withdraw from Britain without even attempting to try and bargain at the International Wizarding Conference. 'If Spain wanted to leave that badly', she wrote, 'then they should not have even bothered with a note and snuck out under cover of night.'

She rushed to finish the first draft of her article, and dipped her quill into ink when it finally went dry. As she continued to write she realized that the conference was taking place at that moment. The location had been changed at the last minute due to a breach in security and it was taking place at the British Ministry of Magic. She looked down at her parchment to review what she had written, but saw that her pen had run dry again and that she had been doing nothing more than scratching at the paper for five minutes. Without another thought, she dipped her quill in ink and continued to write, but not even a single thin black line appeared on her page. This was very odd to her and when she turned to check her supply of ink, she realized that her bottle was empty, which she knew to be impossible because she had filled all of her bottles no more than two nights ago.

"I wonder how many times you'll fall for that trick before you learn," a voice said from behind her. She grabbed her wand, gasping with shock, and turned to face whatever intruder had broken into her apartment. It was Tweedle, and he was browsing through the shelves of her refrigerator. "You wouldn't happen to be out of milk, would you? I was hoping to have a bowl of cereal."

"Tweedle, what?" she asked, stunned to find him in her kitchen. "Get out of there, Tweedle! How did you even get in here?"

"Your door is always open to me, your best and only real friend," he said and shut the fridge door. He held a full bottle of ink in the air for her to see and then tossed it to her.

"We aren't friends," Melissa said as she placed the bottle of ink in the correct place on her desk. She was normally unconcerned with the placement of her personal belongings, but ink bottles were her exception to the rule. If they were not where she expected them to be, she would have to look around her desk to find it, which would in turn break her train of thought. If the ink was always in the same place, she never needed to look up from her parchment, and that was how she preferred it. "At least, last I checked, friends don't break into other friend's houses. Or did you change that rule when you changed out my ink. Why the hell are you here anyway?"

"I'm here to remind you to do your job," Tweedle said.

"That's what I was doing before you interrupted me, and I would like to get back to it if you don't mind," Melissa said and turned back to her parchment. "What do you care anyway? It's Beaty's job to make sure that I'm working and turning columns in on time."

Tweedle walked across the room to her desk and snatched her quill out of her hand. She swung around to face him and tried to snatch the quill back. Each time she grabbed for it, he moved it out of her reach. She screamed at his face and stood to face him, and he retreated into the living room.

"Give me back my damn quill, Tweedle!" She twisted his arm behind his back until he dropped the quill on the floor. Fuming, she picked it up and returned to her desk. "And get the hell out of my apartment before I actually break your arm."

"Fine, but before I leave, I need to convey a message." He was persistent and she wanted desperately to shove him out her window down three stories and watch him splatter across the concrete. "The Prophet's owner wants you to be at the Ministry of Magic during the conference today."

"The owner?" Melissa asked. She had heard of the man who ran the Daily Prophet but had never seen him in person. Rumor had it that he was a business man who had earned a small fortune profiteering in the conflict between the Death Eaters and the Ministry holdouts, selling supplies to both sides, and that was how he was able to buy out the Prophet. Supposedly, he had money before, but no one knew for sure. "Why would he want me there? And what does he want me to do?"

"He wants an article of course. We want you to use your Ministry clearance to enter the administrative wing, and from there you can find a way to break into the Minister of Magic's office. We need you to plant a bug so that we can listen in on the Minister in his spare time, and the conference will be an ideal time because he'll be away from his desk."

"It's impossible. The owner must know how many security measures there are in place around the Minister of Magic's office. The whole place will be impregnable."

"I imagine that you'll be able to find a way to sneak in and out. And if you're afraid you'll get caught, just turn yourself into an owl. You would not draw much attention inside the Ministry in your animagus form." Melissa's eyes grew wide with surprise and fear. She had never told anyone her closest secret before, yet apparently Tweedle was party to information that not even her own mother was privy to. "You didn't think I knew, did you?"

"It's just that I've never said anything to anyone. How did you know?"

"I told you. I see everything that goes on and no one has secrets from me." Tweedle opened the door to let himself out. "Don't worry though; friends don't share other friend's secrets. The owner wants the bug planted before the end of the conference, so I suggest you get moving."

Tweedle left a small device on the side table by the door before he left. It was the bug; just a simple, small rounded device. As Melissa examined it, she thought to herself about the dirty information Tweedle had about her. If Melissa had any reason to fear him before, she had all the more reason to do so now. Wizards and witches with unregistered animagus abilities were sent to Azkaban with one way tickets. The fact that Tweedle knew her secret made her vulnerable to black mail and extortion. Feelings of vulnerability overcame her reason for a moment and she contemplated running, flying away to live into the forests of France where no one would find her and she could be free. Tweedle had no motive to expose her though. She held no power over him and so he would keep their secret until it became inconvenient. She gathered her things and left for the Ministry, making sure to lock her apartment door behind her.

When Melissa arrived at the Ministry of Magic, she found the entire building swamped with Magical Law Enforcement officers. They were in the lobby checking people's bags as they entered, they were by the entrance fireplaces with hounds that were trained to sniff out shrouding enchantments, and they were on the atrium balconies, observing passerby below. Undeterred by the spike in security, she slipped Tweedle's bug into her shirt pocket and walked through the checkpoints, letting the officers check her bag for dangerous weapons. They found nothing of course, and Melissa continued on to the elevators.

She rode to the administrative level and made her way to the office of the Minister. There were not as many security personnel occupying the corridors as there had been on the ground level, but Melissa was quick to notice that all of the officers guarding critical areas were members of the ADS. Each ADS member wore an identifying lapel in the shape of a six pointed star. The points of the star were alternated red and orange in color and in the center of the pin, the letters ADS were emblazoned in gold. Their uniforms were also distinct from those of the other Magical Law Enforcement officers. ADS officers wore black padded robes with innumerable zippered pockets and belts that held all manner of magical gadgets and utilities. The agent's faces were shrouded by black hoods and dark glasses, which would make it impossible to identify one of them by name.

Two agents were stationed outside of the Minister of Magic's office, standing stiff at attention like statues. Melissa wondered how she would get past them. She wished that she had brought her time turner so that she could plant the bug in the past where there would have been less security. That attempt might have been futile as well though, as she imagined that Ministry security meticulously swept each room in anticipation of security threats at the conference.

"You come with me," a man said from behind her. Melissa turned as stiff as a tree trunk, assuming that the man was speaking to her. She turned around to find an ADS commander, but the man was looking over her head and he had been addressing the agents that were guarding the Minister's office.

"Sir?" one of the guards asked and Melissa could tell that he was confused by the order. Something was not right about the situation. Why would the ADS pull guards from the Minister's office? Surely they must have had other officers doing less important tasks.

The commander motioned for the guards to move away from the door and he sent them down the hallway. Then he gave Melissa a sideways glance and then turned to follow his men. For a moment, she considered the crazed possibility that the commander had moved his guards away from the Minister's office for her sake. Why they would let her pass, she could not say, and if what she suspected were true, the roots of Ministry corruption ran deeper than she had ever suspected. She dismissed the thought as wild conspiracy and assumed that she had just gotten lucky. Hoping that her luck would hold, she used her wand to break the lock on the Minister's office and she slipped inside.

The Minister of Magic's office was larger than Melissa had imagined. It was a magnanimous and encompassing space about five times the size of the living room in her apartment and the Minister's already massive wooden desk looked tiny within the large space. The entire back wall was a long and curved window that looked out over the atrium several floors below them. Despite the stature and size of the office, the only decoration that this Minister of Magic had displayed on the walls was a photograph of the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Melissa had heard stories about Mad-Eye Moody, Lupin and Tonks, all of whom had perished in the war against Voldemort. It was said that they were a different class of Wizards; an honorable class that would never have even for a second considered shifting their burden onto others. The Wizarding world needed more heroes like them, but apparently it would have to make do with the ADS.

Melissa searched around, trying to find the best place to put Tweedle's bug. She knelt behind the Minister's desk and decided to place it along the underside of the wood in a small little nook where the top drawer slid out from the desk. Once it was planted, she tapped it twice to activate it.

She was about to stand from beneath the desk when she heard the door open across the office.

"I cannot believe they are doing this to us," Melissa heard the Minister of Magic say in his unmistakable low and deep voice. "How have we ever wronged the international community?"

"I'm as confused as you are, Minister," a woman's voce said. The voice was familiar to her, but Melissa could not say who exactly it belonged to. It was something subtle hidden in the inflection that the woman used on certain words; something strikingly familiar. "I don't think we have done anything wrong at all. The other heads of state are needlessly paranoid."

"And to think that they've been planning this from the beginning behind our back," Kinsley said. He came to Melissa's side of the desk and she quickly morphed into her smaller owl form. His feet came within inches of her talons as he sat down in his desk chair and she retreated as far into the shadows of the desk as she could to avoid being seen. "I swear that Amoroso woman is a snake. The Americans are power hungry and always have been. They would conquer the world with power plays and veiled threats while they accuse us of running the equivalent of a Muggle banana republic."

"They're completely wrong," the other voice said. He must have been one of the Minister's aides, and a very timid one at that. "Your unprecedented anti-corruption campaign—"

"—Has fallen on deaf ears," Kinsley said, finishing the aide's sentence. "By the way, where was the ADS detail that was assigned to guard my office?"

"I can't say," said a third voice; a man this time. "Two of my men were supposed to be waiting outside. We'll find them and they'll be disciplined for leaving their posts."

"I'm sure they will be, captain," Kinglsey told the third man, who was apparently an ADS commander. "In the meanwhile, round up a couple of Aurors to guard my office."

"Sir, the ADS is more than capable of handling your security," the ADS captain said.

"I am sure that your men are more than up to the task, but Aurors have never been known to abandon their posts."

"As you wish, Minister, I'll be back with two Aurors." The door opened and Melissa assumed that the ADS captain left the room. She hoped that the Minister's cadre would leave before the Aurors arrived. If she was still inside with a detail stationed by the door, she would have been caught for sure.

"Minister, we should go. We wouldn't want to keep the other heads of state waiting long, would we?" the woman's voice asked.

"Yes, Lyn, you're right," Kingsly said as he rose from his chair to leave. The Minister and his aides left the room and Melissa morphed back into her human form. She was relieved that she had been saved from discovery, but she wanted to follow the group to determine if the woman was someone that she knew. They were about to board an elevator when Melissa caught up with them. Lyn was a woman of short-stature with sleek, bronze hair, and Melissa did not recognize her as anyone that she had ever seen before in her life. As the Minister and his aides boarded the elevator, Melissa caught the woman's eye for a moment. Lyn stopped with one foot inside of the elevator and careened her neck and looked at Melissa with wide and surprised eyes. She quickly regained her composure though and stepped into the elevator as it sped off to another floor.

Melissa was still unable to determine whether Lyn was someone that she knew, but Lyn certainly seemed to know who Melissa was, and had clearly not expected to see her there. She thought on the woman's voice for another moment and tried to remember what it was about her that was familiar, but she was unable to do so.

Melissa remained at the Ministry until the end of the conference. She waited with the rest of the press in the Ministry atrium for the heads of the wizarding nations to complete their deliberations. When they emerged, many hoped that a new peace treaty would have been signed, but if things were as bad as the Minister of Magic had made them seem, the ties that bound the wizarding nations together were tenser than ever before.

Eventually, ministry security began to clear the atrium except for members of the press from nations across the world, and people who wished to stay and hear the results of the council. The remnants were corralled into a small corner next to the elevators and they awaited the arrival of their wizarding leaders. Soon after, an elevator appeared in the atrium filled with a group of diplomats.

Anya Amorosa, the American Secretary of Magic was the first one to emerge. Her face was hardened and determined as she walked to the center of the atrium where a podium had been set up for her. The Spanish Minister and his Ambassador were following close behind her like dogs, begging for her to toss scraps of meat behind her, and they were trailed by the Ministers of Magic from Germany, Russia, China, Romania, Bulgaria, Austria and Italy. Bringing up the rear were the rest of the heads of state who had attended the conference, including the French Minister of Magic and Kinsley Shacklebolt. Anya Amorosa was the first to take the bully pulpit.

"We, the leaders of the wizarding world, stand here before you at the end of a lengthy discussion process, divided," Amoroso said. A low murmur spread rippled through the crowd until the American Secretary was forced to quiet them. "We were unable to come to terms and agree on a comprehensive plan due to several fundamental policy differences. The news is not all bad; however, and we have been able to agree on a couple of important issues. First and foremost in our discussions was the looming threat of other dark wizards, some who may even be more powerful than Lord Voldemort, who seized power from this very Ministry and instituted a reign of terror on the peaceful population of this country. We are resolute that measures should be taken to prevent this type of situation from ever occurring again; however, we disagree on the various methods of doing so.

"I have proposed and we have passed by sweeping majority, a resolution that states that in the event of a forceful seizure of power in any country by any dark wizard, an armed intervention into that country shall be mounted by the other members of the international community and the dark wizard shall be removed from power." At this, the crowd began to cheer and Amoroso had to quiet them again before she could continue.

"Wait for me to finish before you applaud our decisions. The decision to enact a policy of intervention was nearly unanimous, and was only opposed by two heads of state. I will not disclose which heads of state, but they are well aware of my objections to their refusal to cooperate. The more contentious issues we could not reach an accord on. The first of which was a proposal authored jointly by myself and the Spanish Minister for Magic. It is our firm belief that the best and only policy to deal with the terrorist actions of dark wizards is to catch them in their infancy. We mean to enact policies and programs of surveillance and counterintelligence so that we can know who these terrorists are, what capabilities they have, and what followings they lead.

"Some of my colleagues, notably the French Minister of Magic, and Britain's own Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt do not agree that we should monitor the lives of our citizens. I stand before you, determined that a minor invasion of our citizen's privacy is well worth the lives that we will save in the event of another uprising by dark wizards. I stand here before you with German Minister Drescher, Russian Minister and President Putin, Chinese Premier Chang, and Spanish Minister Gonzalez, among others, who are all behind my plan for the safety of the Wizarding World.

"By simple majority, we have passed and enacted policies granting the International Confederation of Wizards, and specifically the Supreme Mugwump, me, the authority to deploy surveillance teams on the ground in each of our respective countries if there is a suspicion of illegal or treasonous activities. These teams will have the authority to investigate and apprehend any and all suspects and extradite them to secret locations for questioning.

"As Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, I hereby initiate the first deployment of surveillance units onto British soil." The crowd began to jeer at the American Secretary, but Amoroso continued her address calmly and coolly as if nothing had changed.

"Minister Shacklebolt has voiced his protest, but our actions are within the confines of current International Wizarding Law and the Minister has no authority to stop us. The British Ministry of Magic has not fulfilled its obligations to secure its state from dark wizards. Many of Lord Voldemort's followers known as Death Eaters are still at large on British soil. Members of Mr. Shacklebolt's own corrupted Ministry have even been known to shelter these Death Eaters and obfuscate attempts to capture them. The Minister has failed in his duty to secure the stability of the Wizarding World, and so the Wizarding World must now do his house cleaning for him. These are the conclusions of the International Wizarding Conference. Thank you for your time."

By the end of Amoroso's speech, the crowd was in uproar. British onlookers showed their discontent, flinging spells into the air in protest. Members of foreign press bodies silently slipped away from the mob while Amoroso and her allied heads of state left the Ministry Atrium.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was next to take the podium, standing next to French Minister Gerard, and both leaders tried to calm the crowd so that the British Minister could speak. Melissa was shocked at the conclusion of the conference. She had been attacking the French Minister of Magic in the Prophet, not knowing that he had only held out on the conference vote to protect British interests. Her assumptions were flawed and she felt horrible for bashing the French when there was no justified reason to do so.

The British Minister of Magic was only able to settle the mob by shooting bright orange sparks into the air. The crowd waited for him to speak, but Kingsley stood at the podium, silent and deep in thought.

"In many ways, the International Wizarding Conference was a success," Kingsley said, but the crowd shot back a resounding 'no'. They grew angry again and some even shouted that he was being 'soft' and 'weak'. The Auror who had dueled Voldemort alongside Professor McGonagall and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix had been replaced by the powerless shell of a defunct politician. As he took the crowd's protest, something seemed to spark and the Minister's eyes brightened with purpose and he moved to quiet the crowd once again. "Please, let me speak. Good things have come from this conference too. The intervention resolution was passed nearly unanimously and it will insure the safety and security of the Wizarding World. Minister Gerard and I do not agree with Secretary Amoroso's other policies, however.

"This invasion of our citizens' privacy will not be tolerated. Secretary Amoroso has my full assurances that any attempt at her agents to gain access to this country will be turned back. She is aware that any attempt to seize our citizens or the property of our citizens will be regarded as an act of war. Her dog has no teeth and we will prove that our resolve is stronger than hers."

The crowd began to applaud as Kingsley was finally able to step into his leadership role. If he was unable to control the bureaucrats, he would make up for those flaws by wielding his citizens like a club. He had found his voice and his confidence showed through in the way that he smiled out into his audience, which until moments ago thought him incompetent. They had expected him to give up and cave like he had to others in his administration, but the Minister chose instead to stand tall as a proud citizen of Britain, ready to personally fight off any aggression against his nation.

"We will remain strong alongside our Dutch, Belgian, Scandanavian and French allies," Kingsley said, which was the cause of another hurrah from the audience. "We will defend our lands, but we cannot do it alone. We heads of state cannot do it alone. We need all of you to assist us in this task. I ask for your vigilance in your everyday life. If you suspect something out of the ordinary, report it. If you have information about foreign agents on our soil, report that as well. We will resist American tyranny. Resist today and resist tomorrow. Resist until we prove to that woman that she has no right to come to our country with her crony followers and bully us around."

The crowd was rampant with shouts of praise for the Minister. Kingsley had inspired the people and made them believe that they had a chance. The press swarmed the pulpit demanding that the Ministers answer questions. Melissa joined them, battling through the morass of parchment, camera flashes and bodies until she made it to the front of the crowd.

"Minister Kingsley," Melissa said, succeeding in catching his attention, "what's your plan for overcoming this new wave of American oppression?"

"My plan?" Kingsley asked. He pretended to be confused by the question, but a hint of sarcasm showed through his false blank exterior. "My dear woman, my plan is to win."

Kingsley left the stage, followed by the French Minister to convene with their respective staff members that were holding back by the elevators. Melissa noticed that the Minister's aide, Lyn, was the one to lead him into the elevators while the other aides fought off the flocks of press. Whoever that woman was, she was certainly nestled deep inside of the Minister's pocket.


End file.
